Dark Side of the Moon
by Hobbsy3
Summary: When the peace of the Shire is shattered by a frantic wizard and Darkness falls upon Erebor, the patchwork family of Kili Baggins is thrown into chaos. Sundered by distance and duty, they must each play a part in the war revolving around the Ring that has long dwelt in Bilbo's pocket. But a conspiracy forms in the shadows and the Ring vanishes, putting the whole world at stake. T/M
1. Chapter 1: A Shadow Rides

**Hello and welcome to _Dark Side of the Moon,_ the new and improved sequel to _Strangers Like Me._ If you haven't read the previous story, I invite you to visit my profile and check it out, but the plot should stand on its own two feet whether you've read _Strangers_ or not. **

**This story is a re-writing of _The Last, The Lost, The Least,_ which I started during the final stages of my degree. Unfortunately, this meant that I rushed the first several chapters, lost control of the characters, and made the whole thing a lot more confusing for both me and the reader. That version of the story is still available to read, and I have no intention to take it down. However, this is the story that I will be updating from now on. For those of you who have read any of _The Last, The Lost, The Least,_ much of this story will be familiar. However, I have endeavoured to add something new and entertaining and/or interesting in every single chapter, so it will hopefully not feel stale. **

**Also, I will be doing an ADVENT CALENDAR this December! That means, for as long as I am able to, I will be uploading a chapter a day throughout the days leading up to Christmas! I'm really excited and slightly nervous, but as prepared as I'll ever be!**

 **So, let's begin.**

 **Chapter One: A Shadow Rides**

The night was cool, for the end of June, but Thorin did not mind. His mind was cleared by the breeze, and his heart lifted by the full moon that rose proudly above the mountain. From his private balcony he could see its pale light flood over the surrounding lands, lending New Dale and Lake-Town a quiet beauty that suited them well. Warm, orange lights twinkled in far-away windows, and on the Long Lake they sparkled with the moonlight and gave the illusion of stars dancing on the water.

It was a sight that Thorin could never tire of, a sight that would never bore him, no matter how long he stared.

This was his home. This mountain, these lands. And they had been hard won. With each of the twenty-two years that had passed, the tale of the Quest for Erebor had been woven into a living legend, but the memories of its hardships and sufferings remained as clear and sharp as cut crystal in Thorin's mind.

The battles, the injuries, the cold nights spent in soaking clothes with no shelter from incessant rain...

It had been worth every injury, for the life it had given his family.

Before the quest, he had believed his nephew, Kíli, to be dead. He had watched Fíli become a sombre prince with only a flicker of his former fire. He had watched his sister's eyes grow dull, watched her wear his fingers to the bone helping any soul she could reach, any soul that was not herself.

The Quest had returned Kíli to them. They had found him in the Shire, living as the son of Bilbo Baggins. He had no memory of his past life, save mangled dreams of blurred faces, but he was happy, and healthy, and loved.

And he brought more love and happiness into Thorin's life than the king could ever have expected. Fíli had grown into a prince greater than any Thorin had ever seen, and Dís had found love once more – with Bilbo. That had been a shock, and something rather difficult to wrap his head around, but they had been married for nigh on twenty years now, and it felt as natural to Thorin as breathing.

It was still often the largest shock for visiting dwarves. The marriage, and the dozen odd hobbits that called the mountain home. In particular, Saradoc, Esmeralda, Paladin and Eglantine stood out among the dwarven folk, for they dressed very much in hobbit fashion, and had not adopted as many dwarven behaviours as their offspring. The people of Erebor loved them for their strangeness, not to mention their charity, and their legendary determination to follow their 'brother,' Kíli, across the world to Erebor.

Thorin loved them more for their humour, and kindness, and loyalty. They had become his legal kin when Bilbo made official his adoption of Kíli and of Frodo, and family of his heart soon thereafter.

Their children, along with Frodo and Sam, had adapted rather easily to life in the Lonely Mountain. Just as Kíli's nature had been shaped by his upbringing, so had theirs, and they exhibited endearing blends of hobbit and dwarven behaviours. As such, they were often referred to as 'dwobbits,' a term that Thorin could never decide if he liked. But he loved the little halflings fiercely, especially Frodo Baggins – Bilbo's nephew, and by that token, Thorin's nephew too. Thorin always felt a silent pride when Frodo would run to him to show off a school project, or complain about Bilbo's rules, or ask his opinion on the colours of the sky.

Despite his (well hidden) favouritism, Thorin loved all of his hobbits, and would freely declare it. He loved their strange, gentle ways, and their sharp humour and wit. Not to mention their selflessness and charity, or their cooking.

The mountain felt very empty without them.

Four times, now, they had left for the better part of the year to visit their homeland and families, and Thorin understood. He wanted them to go, and loathed that they were so far from the people and places that they loved, but he missed them while they were gone. More than anyone he missed his nephews. Fíli and Kíli, and Frodo, closely followed by Dís, and Bilbo. They were always, of course, among the party that left. Meaning that Thorin always had to stay.

This year was not an official year for a visit – every five years was the deal struck with the Shire folk, and the one sanctioned by the Court of Erebor, and only two had passed since their last trip. But this year, Frodo was to turn thirty-three, and come of age. Bilbo wanted him to have a 'proper Baggins birthday party' in Hobbiton, and for decades now, Thorin had possessed neither the strength nor the will to deny anything that would make his family happy.

Except such requests as Frodo's plea for a pet lion several years previously. Luckily, Dís had backed Thorin on that one.

Unfortunately, Thorin had also had to deny Frodo his wish for this year, too.

He had only asked once, but Thorin knew how deeply Frodo had wished for him to go to the Shire for the party. He had looked into possible arrangements, such as having Dain's Son, Thorin 'Two' Stonehelm, guard the throne until he returned, but eventually he had to concede that there was nothing he could really do.

When Balin advised against the wishes of the little hobbits, one knew that Balin was well and truly right. Frodo did well in hiding his disappointment, something that made Thorin feel worse. He smiled and said he understood, laughed when Thorin tried to apologise again.

"We shall have another party when I return," he promised. "And that one you shall have to attend."

Thorin's lingering guilt had been appeased by the knowledge that he was not truly needed there. They were well protected. The hobbits had happily complied with dwarven law, meaning that their children had all been well trained with weaponry, and even young Pippin could hold his own (when he was not distracted by passing pie vendors.)

Moreover, Fíli, Kíli and Dís were highly skilled fighters, and Bofur, Bifur, Nori and Ori were providing more protection. Officially speaking, Bofur and Nori were the bodyguards of Bilbo and Dís, respectively. Since Bofur and Bifur were going, Bombur's oldest five children had been granted permission to go as well, lending two more capable swords from Bofin and Bróin. The twins and Bodin were a little more vulnerable, but they had their uncles there. There were also the other royal bodyguards – Bragi, Soren and Ehren – who watched out for Kíli, Fíli and Frodo respectively.

Four times, they had visited the Shire and returned in one piece. The king's main fear now was that some among them would not wish to return. The younger dwobbits were growing up, growing old enough to make up their own minds. Thorin could not begrudge them that, but it hurt rather a lot to think of even one of them refusing to return. He was particularly concerned that Sam would not return – the entirety of the young Gamgee's birth family resided in the Shire, and ever since the first return to Hobbiton the king had been convinced that the sandy haired boy would not return.

But every time he had returned with Bofur. Every time so far.

Nearby, a raven squawked, making Thorin jump, and then he smiled wryly. Balin often accused him of moping when their kin were in the Shire. He said that the king spent too much time getting lost in his own thoughts and reflections. It was somewhat true, but Thorin was two hundred and seventeen years old, and he had every right to be pensive and reflective. His greying hair was no longer the only sign on his advancing age, after all.

That said, he hardly felt _elderly_. Just a little more suspect to aches and pains than he used to be, that was all.

A faint, familiar noise reached his ears, born up from the far away ground by the nightly breeze, and he frowned. Horse hooves, approaching, rapidly. It was an odd sort of time for a visit from New Dale – all there knew that the mountain gates closed to visitors at the tenth hour past noon. By now, it was nearing midnight. Were it an emergency, there would have been a horn blown before the hooves grew close enough to hear.

He peered down over the balcony to try and spy the rider, but all he could see was a shadow making its way towards his gates. Cursing, he squinted, but his eyesight was apparently fading too.

Wonderful.

He stood up with a shrug, and straightened the edges of his tunic. Well, this visitor would have to wait for morning. They had their laws, and Thorin needed his nightly musings to maintain his sanity. If it really was an emergency, someone would surely send for him.

But as the rider drew closer, the hairs on the back of Thorin's neck stood on end, and a sense of unease curled into his gut. The chill of the breeze no longer seemed so refreshing, and he shuddered.

Dread was seeping into his chest, filling his lungs, though he could not think why. No thought of terror came to mind. It was only a feeling, an emotion so strong it took his breath away.

Something was very, very wrong.

Drawn as if against his will to the edge of the balcony, he peered down again, towards the gate. The Rider was directly below, his cloak billowing in the wind and making him appear eerily shapeless.

Fear curled around Thorin's ankles and his frown deepened.

The Rider looked up.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Please let me know what you thought if you have the time and inclination to review - I really appreciate it!**

 **With luck, I will see you tomorrow with a meatier chapter for Day Two of the Advent Calendar! Until then, thank you for reading, and have a lovely day/night.**


	2. Chapter 2: Coming Home

**Thank you to my lovely reviewers! I hope that you all enjoy this chapter, and forgive any typos that I may have made.**

 **Chapter Two: Coming Home**

It was a miserable excuse for a summer. For weeks, not a day of sun was seen in the whole Shire, and the drizzle was endless, and dull. Even the most excitable of the hobbit children grew tired of splashing in puddles, and it was often too wet for proper play. The farmers' crops were drowning in saturated soil, and already folk were talking about the horror of a potential 'low harvest'.

But the little village of Hobbiton, nestled in the West Farthing, was abuzz with excitement. The rain could not dampen the eager whispers, and the cloud could not hide the shining eyes of the folk that lived there. The whole generation of hobbits whose children were in now in their tweens were, for once, wilder than their offspring. They would run from house to house in pouring rain without so much as a hood, and they would stay out all hours of the night and come home trailing mud and twigs and fireflies into the carpet. Of course, their children were almost as animated. They practically bounced off the walls of their homes and snuck away from distracted parents to search the horizon for hours beneath a dribbling sky.

By August, the excitement of Hobbiton leaked into the surrounding villages, and then to the other farthings, in particular the lands of Tuckborough and Buckland, and by the final days of the month it was unbearable.

Any day now, any day, Kíli Baggins and the hobbits of Erebor would be coming home.

In a series of letters to Gaffer Gamgee, Bilbo had promised that they would be returning (in a group of thirty-three by some rumours, and three hundred by others) by Summer's end to throw young Frodo a coming-of-age party 'for the ages' in his home village.

The Bagginses had not thrown a party in the Shire for twenty odd years, not since before Bilbo and Kíli left on their adventure, but people remembered the effort that the pair used to put into a good celebration. There was even talk of the wizard, Gandalf, making an appearance and letting off some world-famous fireworks, but the Gaffer could promise nothing of the sort, and as the receiver of most letters from the Lonely Mountain he was often deemed the Shire's most reliable source.

"If the wizard's coming," he would say, "Mister Bilbo's said nothing of it to me, and neither has my Sam. I expect there'll be a fair number of dwarves, though. My Sam says there's a lot of them wanting to celebrate with young Mister Frodo."

The last day of August dawned foggy, and poured with rain until midday, and the atmosphere cracked with anticipation and fear. It was a big, scary, wild world beyond their borders – they knew that all too well – so what if some horrible fate had befallen the group? What if they just were not going to come? They had promised to be back by Summer's end, and what was the thirtieth of August if not the end of the Summer?

And then, as the afternoon hit its height and the rain faded away, they were spotted – a large crowd riding towards Hobbiton on ponies and wolves at an impressive speed that was most likely the final sprint in a long, arduous journey. Folk ran out of their houses and down to the edge of the village, and the Gamgees were all but falling over each other to push to the front of the crowd.

The first to ride into the village were Kíli and Meriadoc Brandybuck – who looked very grown up as a tween of thirty-one. Both rode large, bright eyed wolves, but Merry's posture was very different from Kíli's.

When Merry was riding he would not sit upright as the others did, but lie on his stomach with his arms loosely wrapped around Denahi's neck. A specially made saddle shifted his weight to back and to the right, to accommodate for the wolf's missing limb.

And they still beat the rest of their company into the heart of Hobbiton.

"Hullo, everyone!" Merry called, to a chorus of greetings. He began to unfasten himself as Kíli jumped off of Luno's back and slipped the wolf a slither of jerky. "I told you we'd beat you, Kíli."

"Aye, and I'm mighty impressed that you did!" Kíli grinned, trying to hug back the mob of hobbits – adults and children alike – that seemed intent on squeezing the life out of him. "Hello, everyone. Why, Minto, you've gotten so big! You look just like your father, don't you?"

"That's what everyone says," the young hobbit grinned.

Sam rode up next, his little pony's legs going a mile a minute, it seemed. Within the space of a second he had jumped off of the horse and into the arms of his father. Frodo Baggins was just behind them, with a beaming yet unfamiliar dwarfling on the front of his pony.

Three of the four young Tooks were next in hugging distance – Pippin, Pearl and Pervinca, all now in their tweens. Two identical dwarfling girls rode beside them, with strawberry blonde hair and curious eyes. It was the first time that the Bagginses had brought children back other than their own, and so the twins received rather a lot of attention from the children of Hobbiton

Next came Pimpernel 'Nelly' Took, next to a dwarf who appeared to be of similar age. Their wolves rode shoulder to shoulder, and their heads were bent together. There were grins on their faces that made several bakers in the crowd decide to move their goods away from the windowsills when they got home.

Then came Paladin and Eglantine Took and Esmeralda and Saradoc Brandybuck, with Bilbo Baggins, his dwarven wife Dís, and their son, Fíli.

Their situation had become incredibly confusticated, and the genealogy scholars in the Shire had been quite irritated while they tried to factor the Bagginses into their carefully formatted family trees.

Fíli and Kíli, of course, were of no blood relation to Bilbo. The hobbit had raised Kíli when he had appeared in the Shire as an amnesiac dwarfling, and they had only met Fíli and the rest of Kíli's birth family by coincidence. That coincidence had led to a very unhobbitish quest and their introduction to Dís, Kíli's true mother. Who then decided to confuse things by marrying Bilbo.

To make things more complicated, Bilbo had legally adopted his cousin Frodo, which caused several heated debates among the scholars as to where Frodo Baggins should be placed. Some wrote his name twice – once beneath his parents and once beneath Bilbo, with a careful symbol by his name, along with a footnote at the bottom. Others wrote his name only beneath his parents, and others only with Bilbo. Others still gave up, and went to chart the trees of the Boffin family, instead.

The whole situation was a nightmare compared to the simplicity that hobbits adored, but they put up with it because their Bagginses were their Bagginses. After all they had gone through together, good, bad and horrific, they were willing to allow them some oddities. Especially when those oddities benefited the Shire, too.

A loud cheer sprang up among the children when a familiar dwarf in a very familiar hat pulled his pony to a halt.

"Mister Bofur, Mister Bofur!" they cried. "Mister Bofur, what have you got in your pockets?"

The toymaker chuckled. "Cupboard love, that's all hobbits are good for."

"Mister Bofur, Mister Bofur!"

Bofur threw his head back and laughed, pulling out a little bag and retrieving an strange flask. He unscrewed the top to reveal an instrument unlike any the children had ever seen, with a thin film of shining liquid over it. He blew gently onto it, sending a stream of bubbles flying into the air, and the children squealed in delight, reaching up with open palms. They did not even flinch at the strange dwarf behind him, who had wild eyes, and an axe in his head.

A couple of folk cheered at the appearance of Nori, the hero of the battle of the Shire and regular companion of the Bagginses on their visits. A younger dwarf rode by his side, one he proudly introduced as his brother, Ori Dragonsbane. The hobbits around him were less impressed by his epitaph than they were by his intricately knitted mittens – a fact that made Ori so pleased he promised to visit Daisy Gamgee's knitting club the very next morning.

Equal enthusiasm was granted to the three last dwarves to reach the crowd – Bragi, Soren, and Ehren – close friends of the princes and the official bodyguards of the royal family (though that fact was often forgotten.) They were well known for bringing new and exciting songs into the Green Dragon on every visit, though some of the older folk were less fond of the drinking games that the trio had introduced.

"Alright, alright!" the Gaffer called loudly, his arm wrapped tightly around his youngest son's shoulders. His smile was so big it seemed to split his face in two. "These good folk have travelled far in this miserable weather and now they need to get inside a nice warm house. There'll be plenty of time to catch up soon enough."

With that, the bedraggled parade made its way up to Bag End. It was difficult, because the younger children of Hobbiton kept slipping under their feet in an attempt to slip the wolves jerky, or paw at Bofur's pockets some more. The Tooks and Brandybucks peeled away before the end of the road – they would be staying with Adalgrim and Daisy Took, and Sam left the group to bring his belongings into his old family home.

Finally, sixteen soaking dwarves, two dripping hobbits and six wet wolves managed to squash their way into the foyer of Bag End.

"Move forward!" Bilbo called out from somewhere between Ehren's underarm and Bifur's hair. "Keep walking, try and stay off the carpets! Into the kitchen now, single file, that's it. Right, have we lost anyone?"

"Me!" declared Bodin, Bombur's son.

There was a pause, a muffled squeak, and then a triumphant cry from Gimli. "Got 'im!"

"Right." Bilbo took a deep breath. "First things first… Bedrooms… Now Kíli?"

Kíli cleared his throat. "Right! Amad and Bilbo are in the master bedroom, Frodo will be kipping on the floor in there. I'll be in my bedroom with Fíli, Bragi, Ehren and Soren, then in Frodo's room we'll have the boys of Bombur's brood-"

A cheer went up among the five young dwarves bearing various shades of red hair.

"Shut up, the lot of you!" Bofur thwacked his nearest nephew on the head with a grin. "I told your parents I'd keep you on your best behaviour, that means not interrupting your host at the first sound of your father's name!"

Bofin rubbed the back of his head. "Uncle, I'm seventy-two years old!"

Bofur thwacked him again for good measure. "Then act it."

"Ach-he-hem!" Kíli waited for the room to go quiet, then grinned. "As I was saying, Bofin, Bróin, and Bodin will be sharing that room. That leaves Bofur, Nori, Bifur, Ori and Gimli in guest room one, and then Orla and Ola can go in guest room two."

"Hey," frowned Bodin. "How come the girls get their own room?"

"Because we're girls," Orla said, sticking out her tongue.

" _Because_ Bilbo said so, so you can both stop it right there," Bofur said, a clear warning in his tone, and a twinkle in his eye.

Bilbo clapped his hands together. "Right, if everyone could proceed to their appropriate bedrooms and leave their belongings in a tidy pile, then get changed and reconvene in the dining room for some afternoon tea."

"I told you," Ehren chuckled to Soren as he made his way down the hall. "We'll make a military commander out of him yet."

When the hall was empty, Bilbo lit a fire in the living room and patted the nearest wolf on the head. "Alright, you lot, come in here and get warm. And stay off my armchairs, Sokka."

The young wolf whined innocently and ducked his head down.

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm a cruel hobbit, it's very, very sad. Stay off the furniture, you're shedding like mad at the moment, though I don't know why. The weather's been awful."

Sokka whined again and shook all over Bilbo's good rug. The hobbit sighed sadly and went to put the kettle on. As he bent over the fire, a wet nose snuffled at the back of his neck, and he turned to see Luno staring at him with a slowly wagging tale.

"Bofur's keeping his nieces and nephews under control – if you could kindly do the same," the hobbit teased, stroking the wolf's ears. "If Lani was here she would've nipped that pup five times today, I think."

Luno huffed that odd, laugh like sound that the wolves would so often make and licked Bilbo's ear, before stretching out in front of the fire.

"Thank you," the hobbit muttered, wiping the slobber off of his ear. He rolled his shoulders and then his aching neck. At seventy-two he was hardly considered old, and indeed he neither felt nor looked any different than he had at fifty, but travelling in the rain always made him achy.

"Do you need a hand?"

Bilbo smiled, not needing to turn around to recognise his son's voice. "The Gaffer should've filled up the pantry – see if you can find some biscuits."

"Right away, m'lord!" Kíli ruffled the hobbit's hair – an annoying habit that Bilbo could frankly do without – and bounded into the pantry.

Smiling, Bilbo watched as his hundred-year-old son began to search the shelves. So much had changed in the past two decades, and yet so much was the same. He had been concerned that their positions as princes would dampen Kíli and Fíli's spirits, but they still behaved like overgrown children whenever they could.

Kíli gasped. "Bilbo! Carrot cake!"

"Carrot cake? Oh, bless Hamfast Gamgee. I doubt there'll be enough for everyone, though-"

"No, but there's a box of gingerbread men and huge jar of cookies, so we don't have to worry about Bombur's lot getting in on it." Kíli emerged with his arms laden with goodies. "It was a good call, eating lunch at the Green Dragon."

"Aye, well I knew that I wouldn't fancy cooking the moment I walked in the door, yet people are bound to be hungry."

"Bróin's already offered to make dinner tonight," remembered Kíli. "He's going to rival his father in cooking and eating one day, even if he never seems to gain any weight. Oh, the kettle's boiled – you go and get dressed, I'll make the tea."

"Thank you, my boy," Bilbo smiled, and Kíli wrapped him in a massive hug.

"It's good to be home," the dwarf whispered, before releasing the hobbit. "Ew. You're soaking. Go and get changed."

"I was on my way when you accosted me!" protested the hobbit.

"Shoo, you're blocking my path to the teapot."

"Ingrate."

"Bully."

Shaking his head, Bilbo smiled and hurried off. Bustling into his bedroom, he saw Frodo enveloped in Dís' arms, his face buried in her shoulder. Bilbo paused.

"Is… everything alright?"

Frodo turned around and smiled. "Hello, Uncle. Everything's fine, it's all fine. Sometimes you just need a hug."

"Yes, I quite agree," Bilbo smiled back, though he studied his nephew's eyes intently. It had looked almost like Frodo was crying, but there was certainly no sign of it now. And Frodo's eyes had a useful habit of going red around the edges when he cried, which always let his uncle know the truth.

"Is the kettle on?" Frodo asked, looking completely and utterly normal.

"Yes, Kíli's starting the brew."

Frodo nodded. "I'll go and help him, then."

"Thank you, lad." Bilbo watched his nephew leave and turned to his wife. "What was that about?"

"I'm not entirely sure," she said, her eyes drifting away in Frodo's direction. She rubbed her jaw. "When I came back from the bathroom there was a strange look on his face, but he did not look upset as such… I couldn't put my finger on it. Before I could say anything he asked for a cuddle. Said that he was fine, simply tired."

"Well, that could very well be it," Bilbo peeled his shirt off. "Goodness knows we are all tired."

"I hope so," she sighed, opening the cupboard and throwing Bilbo one of the old shirts that he always kept in the Shire. "Not to worry, I'll set Kíli on his case."

"That is an excellent idea, and just what I was about to suggest," Bilbo said.

Dís threw more clothes at his face. "Hurry up and put your trousers on, Bilbo Baggins, I'd very much like a cup of tea."

"Well, Dís Baggins, I'm not stopping you from going to get it."

Bilbo could not help but smile at the way that Dís' eyes crinkled up as she grinned.

"Very well, I will see you in a moment," she said, crossing the room to kiss him for a lingering moment, before pulling away and slipping out of the door. Bilbo watched her leave for a moment, marvelling at how the few grey strands in her hair shone like silver. He still found it hard to believe, sometimes, that he was married to such an incredible woman.

He still found it hard to believe many things about his life, if he was honest with himself.

Still smiling, he grabbed a pair of nearby braces and headed back towards the kitchen. Fíli, Soren, Bragi and Ehren were all around the table in the kitchen, as were Nori and Ori. Already it was a little crowded, and Bilbo took a deep breath.

"Alright boys, into the dining room. You easily fit twelve around my table before, so all six of you can squash onto one side."

"Having fun, Bilbo?" drawled Nori.

"Lots of fun," the hobbit replied with a smirk. "Sit."

As the room slowly filled and Frodo began handing out tea-cups, Bilbo organised as best he could with a smile in his heart. For all the noise and chaos, he truly loved this odd family they had formed. Of course, half of it was still in Erebor – not all the high lords could leave at once, and Thorin had not been able to make it.

He had wanted to, for Frodo. The pair had a bond that Bilbo found both heart-warming and adorable, but the king could not leave the mountain. It was a real shame, but it could not be helped.

With a heavy sigh, Bilbo sank down into the antique chair that had been squeezed into the corner of the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hands. For a while he did not talk – he simply listened to the conversations chattering around him with a wide smile on his face. His other hand drifted slowly, inevitably, down towards his pocket.

His fingers ran over the cool, golden ring inside it.

He knew that it could only be his imagination, but the ring had seemed to grow heavier over the past few months. While he rarely had need to use it, the temptation to just disappear was growing too, but the last thing that Gandalf had told him had stayed his hand for the last six years.

Keep it secret. Keep it safe.

Bilbo knew that Gandalf was more than capable of taking care of himself, but the hobbit was worried. The wizard had been so frantic, so grim on his last trip to Erebor, and he had not been seen since. Bilbo had made a point to ask around the travellers' haunts in New Dale every now and again, but there was no word of any wizard at all.

He had hoped that Gandalf would return in time to attend Frodo's birthday party, but now he would settle for a simple note to say that the wizard was still alive.

Still, there had been nearly forty years between Gandalf's last visit to the Shire and the quest for Erebor, so he was probably just doing… well, whatever it was that wizards did when they were not instigating adventures or getting perfectly good hobbits into awful trouble.

Bilbo smiled wryly and took a sip of tea. He was glad that Gandalf had dragged him and Kíli into trouble. Really, he would recommend a decent dose of trouble to anyone – not death and destruction of course, just a fair amount of discomfort and maybe even a dash of suffering for something really worthwhile. The rewards were always that much sweeter after a struggle.

There was an almighty crash from the other side of the room, followed by a yelp, a groan and a "Bodin! Look what you've done now!"

Jumping to his feet and hurrying towards the source of the sound, Bilbo qualified that trouble should come between very long periods of peace, and not bother those who had just finished travelling all the way around the world.

By the time Bilbo got out into the hallway, Bodin was in tears, his older brother was shaking his head, and Fíli, Gimli and Bragi were siphoning people away from mass of broken china on the floor.

"Oh dear, that was my Great Aunt Lily's tea set," Bilbo mourned, turning to Bodin in his next breath. "Are you alright, my lad?"

"I'm so sorry," the boy choked. "I was carrying a tray of things be washed, and I just tripped!"

"It's alright," Fíli's voice was as calm and soothing as ever. "It's alright, Bodin, it was an accident. No one's hurt."

 _"Grab a broom, Bodin_ ," Bifur said in Khuzdul. " _Clean up the mess you have made and everything will be fine."_

"No, no, there's an awful lot of sharp edges," Bilbo insisted. "Bodin, how about you and your sisters go outside to play? It looks like the rain is holding off – in fact, Kíli could show you the best play area in Hobbiton!"

"But I made the mess," Bodin chewed on his lip and wrung his hands. "I'm really very sorry-"

"It was an accident," Bilbo said. "No one was hurt, and I never really liked that tea set anyway. Aunt Lily was a lovely woman, but she had horrible taste. No, let the adults deal with this and don't be so hard on yourself."

"To the trees!" Kíli yelled, appearing from around the corner and throwing Bodin over his shoulder. He ran, cackling, to the door, followed by Orla and Ola, who hooted as they went, and Fíli. Frodo, Gimli, Soren, Bragi, Ehren and Bombur's eldest two boys stared after them, like dogs being told to wait.

"Oh, off you go," Bilbo grinned, and the boys all but fell over each other trying to get out of the door. With several yaps and howls, the wolves tore out after them, and Bilbo shook his head. "You wouldn't believe half of them are of age, would you? Alright, Bifur, could you pass me that broom please? And Bofur, you know where the dustpan is – and grab one of those buckets? Thank you. Poor old Bodin – he looked so upset."

"It's easy to forget, sometimes, that he and Pippin are the same age," commented Bofur, waltzing over with a dustpan, brush and a bucket. "Hobbits grow up so much faster than dwarves."

"Aye," Dís nodded. "It's dizzying. Pippin's in his tweens, while Bofin is still very much a child – he has _decades_ before he fully hits adolescence!"

"It does baffle me," Bilbo admitted. "But all we can do is treat them their age as best we can."

"While the younger ones are gone, I'd like to ask you, Bilbo," Ori piped up, rolling up his sleeves. "Have you begun the plans for Frodo's birthday? And how can we help?"

"Oh, I've got plans," Bilbo grinned. "And I tell you, it will be a night to remember."

* * *

Smiling, Kíli closed his eyes and tilted his head back towards the sky to let the sun fall onto his face. Almost as soon as they arrived in the Shire, the rain cleared, and now, two days later, it was the sunniest day he had seen in months, and a perfect day to go paddling in the clear stream that ran through Hobbiton. He sat on the bank with his feet in the cool water, and decided that this moment here was the very definition of content.

He could hear the squealing and splashing of children playing nearby, and delighted laughs that told him the twins and Bodin were getting along just fine with the children of Hobbiton. On the bank behind him, Soren and Fíli were wrestling, cheered on by Bragi and Ehren. Ori was sitting a little way away with several female hobbits, sketching the scene and talking animatedly about – types of yarn? Kíli could not help but wrinkle his nose slightly at that.

Of the adult dwarves, only Ori and Bifur had never spent time in the Shire before, but after two days they could both pass for dwobbits, to an untrained eye. Kíli smirked at the thought. No one had been surprised that Ori and Bifur, of all people, had taken to bare feet and daisy chains like ducks to water. Vinca had sworn that she would have them in full hobbit garb by the day of the party, and Kíli thought she had given herself far too much time.

He would not be much surprised if he woke up tomorrow to see Ori in shorts and a waistcoat.

Someone sat down beside him, so close that she was almost on his lap, and Kíli grinned without opening his eyes. "Hello, Esme."

"Afternoon," she said. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Life is good."

She laughed. "Aye, that's a good thought. Well worth a penny, and true at that."

They did not speak for a while, but there was no pressure to fill the silence. Not with the woman who had been accused of being his twin on more than one occasion. Instead, he continued to enjoy the peace of the Shire. The scents of flowers on the wind, the sounds of cattle and pigs joining with the birdsong to create a symphony that was so perfectly simple. Beneath the shouts of playing children, that was.

A sense of safety so strong you could feel it in your soul. Peace, and happiness, and scandals over who had said what to whom at the marketplace.

As much as he adored Erebor, Kíli still loved it here.

Esme sighed. "We've not done too badly, have we?"

"Not too badly at all."

"I wonder though, sometimes," she said, her voice trailing off into a wistful silence.

"You wonder what?" Kíli's face drew into a frown, and he opened his eyes to look at her. "What?"

"If you've grown up too much," she said sadly. Then, she squashed a handful of mud into his face.

With a shriek of laughter, Kíli lunged, but she was too quick and darted out of reach, scrambling upstream. Drawing as much air into his lungs as he could, he bellowed, "Mud fight! Du _bekar_!"

Chaos shattered what peace the afternoon had maintained as the children in the lake ran, squealing, to Kíli's aid. The little hobbits were hesitant to pelt a grown lady with mud, but Bombur's children knew full well that Esme and Kíli only acted like grownups when they had to. They also knew that whoever started the fight would always be fair game.

The twins were the first within throwing distance, and Orla landed a perfect hit to the back of Esme's neck, sending goopy muck dripping down the back of her shirt. But Bodin cried out in protest and knocked his sister down, by which time Kíli had got close enough to throw a handful of mud in Esme's face.

In the next moment, Ehren had knocked Kíli down onto the floor, and Ori leapt to his feet as the girls who had been watching him sketch ran screaming in the other direction.

"Take this," he said kindly, pressing the picture into the arms of Marigold Gamgee. Then he let out a roar worthy of Smaug and drove Ehren straight into the river.

Mud and water and (oddly) waistcoats were flying in all directions, hitting dwarves and children and hobbits alike, and the jubilant screams soon drew the attention of the other villagers. However, very few adults decided to join this particular game, choosing instead to sit on the fences nearby and watch their children run into the fray. There were exceptions, of course, including an army of tweens led by the dwobbits of Erebor themselves.

A cry to the right drew Kíli's attention, and he turned just in time to see Frodo, face down in a muddy puddle, with a cackling Ola on his back. He threw her off with ease, rolling over and wiping her hair in the mud, dying it the same colour as his own. But when Frodo stood up, Kíli doubled over laughing.

The young hobbit's entire face was the same shade as his hair. He spied Kíli laughing and grinned evilly, his teeth startlingly white against his face, and he charged at the dwarf. Kíli braced himself, just in time for Frodo to ram into him. Their feet slid around on the increasingly boggy bank, and for a moment their wrestling was almost well matched. Kíli was bigger and stronger, but Frodo was clever, and quick on his feet.

"Surrender," grunted Frodo, using Kíli's weight against him to spin him around.

"Never!" Kíli growled, moving his arm to tickle Frodo at the back of his neck. Immediately, the young hobbit gasped and lowered his guard, cringing away. Kíli drove him backwards, but when he slipped to the ground Frodo dragged Kíli down with him and clambered onto his chest. But Kíli was not ready to give up. He threw Frodo off within moments, and they began rolling around in the choppy ground, until –

Splash!

The two young Bagginses tumbled into the stream, and Kíli felt an uncomfortable bump as his backside hit the riverbed. When he sat up, his face was above the water, and he chuckled, water dripping from his nose. Frodo scrambled to his feet, gasping and spluttering, and slightly less muddy than he had been before. Slightly.

Then he offered Kíli his hand with a fond smile.

Kíli accepted it, only to pretend to tug Frodo back down, but Frodo was expecting that and he kicked water into Kíli's eyes. Laughing, they struggled to their feet, and waded to the shore.

Esme met them there, her face alight beneath the mud caked over it. "Ah, well, that was fun. Remember, Frodo, never stay adult for too long. You'll dry up like an old prune, and only the likes of the Sackville-Bagginses and Lord Ioán will like you."

Frodo gave a solemn dwarven salute. "I won't, Auntie Esme."

Kíli smiled, wringing out his hair absently. Frodo was now as much his brother as Esme was his sister, but he had no care for puzzling the oddity of one sibling addressing the other as 'aunt.' His family was rather bizarre in that regard, and that was how he liked it. That was also as much thought as he liked to put into it.

He breathed in deeply, relishing the chaos without consequence, the freedom to play and not have to catch up on princely duties later. Not that he minded the work he had in Erebor. It was simply nice to have a break for a while.

Fíli crashed into his side, his braids black and his grin alight. "Resting, brother?"

"You wish!" Kíli swept Fíli's legs out from beneath him, and they plunged back into the fray.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, especially if this is your second time reading it. As I said, I want to make sure there's at least something new and interesting about every chapter – it may not always be as big as the slightly fluffy scene here, but I'll do my best.**

 **Please do leave a review if you have any comments or feedback for me, I'd really appreciate it. Until tomorrow (fingers crossed), goodbye and take care!**


	3. Chapter 3: The Dance Before Dawn

**Thank you so much for your wonderful support! Here's the next chapter for you, I hope you enjoy it! Please forgive any of my typos!**

 **Chapter Three: The Dance Before Dawn**

Thorin stared at the young warriors before him, his hands clasped firmly beneath his back. Though he knew their character to be true and their minds sharp, he could not help but ask one final time; "You understand what it is you must do?"

They showed no sign of impatience.

"Yes, my lord," said Auden, son of Orvar. "Make haste to the Shire."

"Give the message to your family," added Austen, his twin, patting on the secured satchel with the missive inside. "We will not fail you, my lord."

"I hope not," said Thorin. "For no raven we have sent has returned, and they ought to have done. By now, my kin should have reached the Shire, but we have had no word."

"The riders?"

"Do not speak of them," said Thorin sharply. "It has been weeks since their last visit, yet their absence disturbs me more than their presence. The road will be dangerous, but be as swift as you may. Bilbo must be aware of the interest these foul folk have in him."

"We will suffer no delay," promised Auden. "The warning will be received, my lord. With whatever strength we have, we will deliver it."

"And wish Frodo a happy birthday from all of us here," Austen said, the flicker of a smile twitching over his face.

The king sighed, feeling older than ever before. "Ride hard now. Send word when you reach the Misty Mountains."

"We will," swore the twins, bowing low and mounting their ponies. Then they rode into the night, and were gone.

But the days passed, and the weeks waned, and the loyal sons of Orvar never kept their promise.

* * *

An hour before the sun began to light the horizon, a pair of deep blue eyes opened to the dark. A yawn broke the soft harmony of snores and slow sleep breaths, and a young hobbit stretched her arms up above her head. In one fluid movement she sat up, without so much as shifting the blankets for her little sister beside her. Letting her eyes adjust for a moment, she swung her legs out over the side of the bed and yawned again, drawing little circles in the air with her feet.

She stood up, slipping silently across the room and stepping over the bundle of blankets that was her older sister on the floor. In mere moments, she had dressed herself in dwarven leggings and a long tunic top, dragged her hair into a ponytail and closed the bedroom door behind her. An apple was swiped from the kitchen, and the front door unbolted.

The world wished Nelly 'Good morning' with a slap of cool damp air, and she smiled. It was so good to draw fresh, earth-soaked air into your lungs first thing in the morning. In Erebor she made frequent trips to the balconies, and the gardens and young forests on the mountain's slopes, but they had nothing on the Shire, especially in these early hours when only bakers and farmers were stirring.

She began to jog into the dark morning, out of her grandparent's house and towards the centre of Hobbiton. The first few days that she had spent here had seen her graze fence posts and stumble over mismatched flagstones, but she had adjusted to the lay of the land and now she could simply run. The dim light of the fading moon and stars were enough to see by, in any case.

She passed through the empty market and ran up towards Bag End, increasing her speed as she began to climb the hill. Her breath came faster, shorter, but she pushed herself until she burst past the Bagginses front door, and then came her reward.

With gravity on her side, racing down the other side of the hill felt like flying. Her hair streamed behind her, and the wind poured over her face. Her heart beat so fast it felt as though there was nothing there. She was weightless, her moves were effortless. And when she vaulted the fence into the Party Field, exhilaration flooded from her head to her toes.

Almost reluctantly, she slowed, checking her pace as she circled the field a few times. Everything was prepared – proud tents and gazebos stood, shimmering with morning dew, and a long table stretched across the whole field on the other side. There was also a stage that had been built, and above it, a banner that her own mother had embroidered herself.

 _Happy Birthday, Frodo!_

Excitement curled in her stomach. After all their preparations, after a journey across the world, the day was finally here.

But while the sight was promising, she could not help but think of parties of old. When she was a child, celebrations were held in the meadow of the Old Party Tree.

The Battle of Hobbiton had ended that.

Nelly left the Party Field and slowed on her way down the lane. When she reached the gate of the Memorial Meadow, she stopped jogging altogether and slowed to a walk. It felt disrespectful to run.

Pushing open the gate, she stepped onto the path, remembering how Bróin reacted when first she brought him here as she wandered to the tree.

 _The mud was cracking as it dried, forming crevices all over Bróin's face and neck. By his eyes, they formed laughter lines, broken into place by the smile that so rarely left him._

 _But it was not there now._

 _After the quiet of the river fight, the meadow was sombrely silent. Nelly knew that now, as whining children were dragged off to baths and the older 'fighters' headed for the ale, they were most likely to be granted some time alone._

 _For her, that was important. Bróin was her best friend, and they only spoke about serious matters when they were alone. It was an unspoken rule of theirs. And she had something serious that she had to talk about._

 _"This is where it happened," she said, walking slowly down the only path to wind through the field of flowers. "The battle."_

 _Bróin gazed around, eyes drinking in the sea of colourful flowers, and the hedgerows around it, where finches darted in and out in search of berries and seeds. "Looks so peaceful."_

 _"It never was before. It was where all the parties took place, and even when there was nothing to celebrate it was a great place to play. But afterwards, it wasn't a place for playing, anymore."_

 _"Do you remember much of it?"_

 _Nelly paused, cupping a daisy between her fingers. "Most of what I saw that day, though that's not much. They kept us away from the fighting, or tried to."_

 _"Until the ruffians broke into the Old Mill."_

 _"And found us, aye. That was the first time I ever stabbed a man, that day. Nori'd given me a knife, just in case, and the man was holding Merry in the air… had a knife to his throat – his throat, Bro! We were just kids…"_

 _Bróin put a hand on her arm and squeezed it gently. She shook her head, indignation and anger rising to the surface as they always did, at such memories._

 _"Pippin was just a babe, really. And those, those bastards thought it just to hold knives to our throats, to threaten to kill us – but I had a knife and so did Frodo, and Pearl threw a handful of sand into another one's eyes."_

 _"Pretty brave for a wee hobbit lass," teased Bróin gently, and she grinned, unable to conjure a mock scowl. Bróin knew this story, of course. He had known for years, but it felt right to tell it again. Here. Now. He also knew exactly how to make her feel better._

 _"Aye, it was. We were. We ran to our tree next. Frodo got caught, Fíli saved him. That was the first time I'd ever seen Kíli angry – I thought he'd kill the villain for sure, but he only struck him once. How he managed that, I'll never know…"_

 _"Didn't want to scare you."_

 _Nelly smiled sadly. "Aye. I reckon that's all there is to it."_

 _Their slow wandering came to a stop before the Old Party tree, and Nelly ran her hands over the names carved there._

 _"These are the ones who didn't make it. The ones who gave us everything they had. There's Sam's mama – Bell Gamgee. She was beautiful, Bróin. And Merry's Uncle Barney – and cousin Everard and cousin Hazel…" she trailed off, running through the other names in her mind. They meant little to Bróin, and indeed did not mean much more to her, now. After two decades, those she had barely known had faded almost entirely from her memory, but she had memorised their names._

 _Dwarves liked to sing of their battles and build monuments to commemorate their dead, but hobbits were quieter in their grief. There was no great monument, and no long song dedicated to the Battle that was mentioned so scarcely, but it was not forgotten. Nelly and Bróin stood upon what had been red-stained dirt and scorch marks, scars that had long been swallowed by a sea of flowers._

 _Bróin cleared his throat, and broke the silence. "I thought you said this was a memorial… I understand that your people use flowers to say things, but how do they speak of the battle?"_

 _"They don't," she said. "There is no mention of the battle here, other than the date. The flowers all represent memory, love, grief, that sort of thing."_

 _"It's so strange that you wouldn't want to laud such sacrifice. Surely you wouldn't forget the battle?"_

 _"No, but this isn't a memorial for the battle, it's for the victims," said Nelly gently. "We have a song, too, that tells of what happened, but even that is mainly about those who fell. Nobody wants to remember the fighting. They want to remember the people."_

 _Bróin was quiet for a long moment, and then he grinned rather sadly. "Y'know, the world'd be a lot better place if everyone had the same outlook on life as hobbits do."_

 _"Ah," Nelly painted a smile on her own face. "You'd get bored."_

 _"Not at all," Bróin slung an arm around her shoulders. "I'd just throw myself into organised wrestling."_

 _She shook her head slowly, and leant into his side to thank him. Were they anywhere else, he would have probably poked her face in response, a sure-fire way to start a great wrestling match and get her laughing, but this was not the place, and they both knew it. Instead, when he unwound his arm from her shoulders it was to trace the names as she had, and run his hand gently through the flowers._

 _"Do you… do you ever wish you'd stayed here?" he asked, without looking at her._

 _She needed no time to answer. "No. Mama and Papa did the right thing, and I've never regretted it. Not when I have this life, this family to show for it. Why? Do_ you _wish we'd stayed here?"_

 _"Aye. Wouldn't have to put up with you, would I?"_

 _"Careful," she sang. "It's been a long time since you beat me sparring."_

 _He laughed. "I humour you." But then the smile faded from his face and he turned back to the tree. He stood for a long moment, staring at the names, and then he bowed so low that his hair dusted the floor. "Thank you for your sacrifice."_

Face to face with the tree, Nelly stared at the carven names, and bowed her head.

"Thank you," she murmured, running her own fingers over the names again. She had done so every day since they arrived back. "For fighting. Thank you for protecting my family. I'm so sorry that it cost you your lives."

The boughs of the tree swayed serenely above her, and she bowed once more. Then, she moved on.

As soon as she was out of the meadow, she began to run again. The sky was beginning to grow lighter now, and she could see enough to run through the forest now. She took her usual path, and entered the trees without a single scrape. Grinning, she sped into a sprint, dodging the low branches and reaching brambles that stretched towards her.

She had run all sorts of obstacle courses with Nori throughout the years, and suffered more bruises and scrapes than her siblings put together, but now there were few in Erebor who could run a course with more skill than she could. It was a nice challenge to run in a place where your environment could change with a guest of wind or a passing animal, especially where it was barely light enough to see.

Faster and faster, she wove her way to the large tree that formed the setting for her nightmares and her daydreams. Her parents, uncle and Kíli referred to it as 'their' tree, and in her early years she had grown up in its branches. They all had.

Nelly climbed easily, making her way to the strong boughs halfway up, and then sat still for a few moments in the early morning breeze. She let her eyes close and her mind empty. It was a trick that she had learnt from Elladan and Elrohir, the cheery sons of Elrond, over several visits to Rivendell, and a couple of their visits to New Dale and Erebor.

This had been her routine for more than a decade, no matter where she was, who she was with, or how spontaneous she was during the day. In the hours before sunlight she would train her body – running and simplistic exercises – and her mind with meditation. She would do it alone, and return to her family or companions just as the sun came up. Then, as the day grew older, she would let it take her where it would.

Nelly had begun her little ritual as an effort to prove to her parents that she was more than capable of joining Nori's 'Watchers' – a group of skilled, spy-like dwarves who aided the guards in maintaining peace and safety in Erebor. It had since become so much more than that. She found that without her mornings running alone she would become rather irritable, and with them she could deal with her chaotic family all day long, without a trace of weariness. Her brother thought she was mad – Pippin could not understand how waking up hours earlier than you need to could make one less tired. Nelly, on the other hand, could not understand how one could live life without a waking moment of solitude.

The quiet bird song around her began to grow a little louder. When Nelly opened her eyes, it was light enough to see her surroundings with little difficulty. She stood up, pausing but a moment to adjust her balance. Then, she bent over and grabbed a hold of the branch, kicking her legs up into the air. She walked along the branch on her hands, her stomach swooping as the bough swayed a little. The balance beams and swinging poles at Erebor never shifted.

It was a thrilling feeling.

She walked back to the base of the tree and then rested her legs against the trunk, before kicking them backwards over her head to make a wobbly landing on the bough. Controlling her breathing with care, she ran through several other drills and exercises, choreographing as she went. Nori always said that it was foolish to repeat the same techniques day after day, as your body would simply get used to them.

Finally, the sky was light enough to tell her that the sun had almost broken over the horizon, so she hopped out of the tree and began to run once again.

She skidded to a halt outside her grandparents' door just in time to see the sun peeking over the hills. It would be another half hour or so before her family woke, even on a day like today, so she had no contest for the bathroom – that was the other plus of getting up early.

One cold shower later, she snuck into the kitchen and made herself some toast, gazing out of the window as she ate. The grass glittered beneath the rising sun, and she could not see a single cloud.

Yawning, Pippin shuffled into the room. "Morning."

"Morning," Nelly sang. "You've got drool on your chin."

Pippin rubbed at his chin and sat down. "You're in that old dressing gown again."

"My, you're very observant this morning," Nelly replied lightly. "And up earlier than usual."

Pippin just yawned. "You ought to go and get dressed. Papa won't be impressed if you're still strolling around like that when he wakes."

Nelly rolled her eyes. "I'm going now. Don't worry yourself, laddie."

"I'm not worried about you; I'm worried about my ears. It's too early to hear all the yelling."

"Aw, wee lamb," Nelly drawled, putting her plate in the sink and returning to the bedroom she shared with her sleeping sisters. Pippin had a point – it was not particularly proper for a girl to flounce around the house in a naught but a knee-length dressing gown, in the Shire or Erebor, but no one was usually up this early anyway.

Shaking her head, she opened the wardrobe, mindful of the squeaking door, and pulled out the outfit her grandmother had made her. Even at the age of ninety-three, her Grandma Daisy was an incredible seamstress.

Nelly began to get dressed, starting with her undergarments and then the ivory coloured undershirt and underskirt, both embroidered with flowers. Next came the dusty blue bodice, embroidered at the front and tied with ribbons at the back, then finally the matching skirt, split down the front to show off the embroidery of the underskirt. The outfit came halfway down her shins – a fashionable hobbit choice that was unseen in Erebor. It had been years since she had worn such an outfit, and she had to admit that she was enjoying dressing up.

By the time she got out her combs and beads, Vinca and Pearl were up and arguing vehemently with Merry over who got to use the bathroom first. Nelly snickered. Careful to keep her hair as hobbitish as possible, she gathered the top half up and braided into a little bun, letting the rest hang loose. In with a decorative comb and – there. She was done.

It felt strange dressing up without the nakhdu id'ubd, the traditional dwarven face paint, but there was something about seeing her naked face in the mirror that she liked. It felt very natural.

When her grandfather called out that food was ready, Nelly ate rather slowly, savouring every bite of Adalgrim Took's famous full Shire breakfast, while her siblings, parents, aunts and cousins wolfed down their food in various states of dress. Once upon a time she would have been the last to get ready, but she had learnt that it was far easier to sort yourself first out and watch the rest run around like headless chickens. She got reprimanded far less for that.

She was playing cards when her grandmother walked into the room. "Cup of tea, my dear?"

"Oh, I'd love one, thank you," Nelly smiled, taking the steaming cup happily.

"Perfect! I made one for your Grandfather, but he had made his own." Daisy sat down beside her. "I must say, I do love it when you come back to visit us."

"Me too," Nelly squeezed her grandmother's hand.

"Are you happy in that big old city, lass?"

"Oh, yes," Nelly enthused, unable to help her grin. "You should come back with us for a visit! It's really a sight to see. And there's so much to do, all the time! Take Pearl, for example, she teaches dancing to little dwarflings and choreographs all these huge shows with professional dancers. Then on her off days she runs around like a hooligan with the rest of us, doing whatever we want to do! Tea parties, pranking people, dances, concerts, painting, singing – just, anything you can think of. Oh, you would _love_ it Grandma!"

Daisy chuckled. "I'm a bit old for such a journey, Nell."

"You're only as old as you want to be," Nelly winked, and her grandmother laughed again. "No, I do love it. I am very happy there."

"With that Bróin lad?"

" _Grandma_!" Nelly groaned. "Not you, too! We're friends, that is all."

"Ah, I can't help myself. I'd like to see my grandchildren married before I go on."

Nelly rolled her eyes.

"Speaking of marriage, I'd have thought that young Bilbo and Dís might've had a babe or two by now. Goodness knows they have enough practise raising children."

Nelly's heart fell, and she sighed. "Grandma, I'm not sure that they can."

Daisy's smile collapsed. "What do you mean?"

Looking around, Nelly leant closer and lowered her voice. "Dís has fallen pregnant four times in the past two decades. She lost two before they were much of a bump, and the others were stillborn a little later. It was awful, Grandma, they were crushed. We all were."

"Oh, Nelly, I'm so sorry for poking in," Daisy put her hand on her heart. "That's just dreadful."

Nelly sighed sadly. "I know. I think they're trying not to, now."

"Poor souls," Daisy shook her head. "I lost a son you know, before your father was born. Peregrin, was his name. He was such a tiny little thing, and he only lived a few hours. It is not something that you ever forget."

"I didn't know that," Nelly murmured. "Is that why Pippin…"

"Indeed," Daisy smiled sadly. "We told Paladin and Esme of their brother, but it is still a sad subject today."

"And that's why Papa and Aunt Esme are called your youngest children by some of the old folk?"

"Aye, it's their way of remembering. My, this is no subject to dwell on when it is the day of such a big party. We should be celebrating!"

"Yes," Nelly took a deep breath and smiled, raising her tea cup like a tankard. "Yes, we should. Despite all bets, Frodo Baggins actually made it to adulthood!"

Daisy laughed. "Pimpernel Took!"

"Oh, but we did such stupid things, Grandma," Nelly insisted, and then laughed. "It's a wonder any of us are still alive, really!"

"And you don't do stupid things anymore?" Daisy raised an eyebrow.

"That depends on your definition of stupid," Nelly said lightly.

Daisy laughed again. "Well, just you be careful, lass. I – oh, there's the doorbell. Be a dear and grab that for me, lass."

"Of course," Nelly jumped up and skipped over to the door. She opened it, and her jaw dropped.

"Am I hobbitish enough for you?" asked Bróin, gesturing to his three-quarter length trousers, braces, light shirt, waistcoat, scarf and jacket. His feet were bare and his hair – his hair had _curls_ in it, and hung just above his shoulders!

She laughed brightly. "Nice! How did you do your hair? You did not cut it?"

Bróin stared at her as if she had grown a second head, and stuffed his hands into his curls as if to protect them from harm. "No, I didn't cut it! I let my sisters at it and slept with knots in my hair all night. Now I have about fifteen thousand pins digging into my scalp to make it look shorter, and I look like a poodle."

"Nelly, who is it?" her grandmother called from the kitchen.

"Just Bróin."

There was a thud from the adjoining room, and Uncle Saradoc poked his head out of the door. "Good heavens, is that the time?"

"Midday is in five minutes and counting," Bróin nodded.

Saradoc went pale and yelled. _"Five-minute warning, let's go, let's go, let's go! Esme, now is_ not _the time to start your hair again, let's go! This is not a drill; I repeat_ not _a drill – Vinca are you not even_ dressed! _"_

Ignoring the mayhem behind her, Nelly turned back to Bróin. "You don't look like a poodle."

"You didn't see it loose," Bróin muttered, though he was grinning. "It's alright now that it's pinned up and isn't falling in long, flowing ringlets down my back."

Nelly snorted. "I can imagine. But yes, in answer to your first question. You do look hobbitish enough."

"Good," Bróin leant against the doorframe with a grin. "You should see Gimli. It's hilarious."

"Oh, please tell me there are curls in his hair!"

"Of course," Bróin said proudly. "And he's in full hobbit dress. Red shorts, white top, green waistcoat, red jacket. Wasn't sure we'd find anything that could fit him, to be honest, but we did. Ori's drawing a picture of it as we speak, so we can frame it and keep it forever."

"Wonderful!" Nelly clapped her hands together and looked over her shoulder. "Are we ready to go?"

"No!"

Nelly sighed. "Well I am, so we're going to go ahead, alright?" She sauntered out of the door, raising her eyebrows at Bróin. "Well, are you coming?"

He offered her his arm. "Of course."

They were barely halfway down the lane when the sound of music met their ears, and a young blonde tween ran towards them, her blonde hair flying behind her and her blue eyes sparkling.

"Nelly!"

"Who's this?" Bróin murmured.

"Estella!" Nelly ignored him, hugging her young friend tightly. "Where have you been? I haven't seen you since the last trip!"

"I've been down in Deep Hollow, with my mother's family for the last few months, my grandma wasn't too well," Estella explained cheerfully. "But she was well enough to travel up for Frodo's birthday today, we got here late last night."

"That's wonderful – though I'm sorry your grandmother was sick. This is Bróin, by the way. Bróin, this is Estella Bolger, Fatty's little sister."

"Ah," Bróin nodded, grinning at the tween. "It's lovely to meet you, your brother's a riot."

"He _starts_ a riot every time Merry, Frodo and Pippin leave, but if you dare suggest he leave the Shire, _no,_ that's out of the question," Estella rolled her eyes.

"There's nothing wrong with loving your homeland," Bróin said, but then he added with a wink, "there's nothing wrong with a bit of wanderlust either."

Nelly rolled her eyes with a wry smile. "Vinca's still inside, I think, if you're looking for her, Stella."

"Thanks, Nelly," Estella beamed, waving goodbye and running off the way that Nelly and Bróin had just come.

Nelly snickered. "Could you perhaps not flirt with every pretty lass that you ever meet? It's just embarrassing."

"I wasn't flirting," Bróin protested. "I was just being friendly! She's Vinca's friend, is she not?"

"Estella and Vinca were _best_ friends, close as you and I, back when we lived in Hobbiton, and they're still really close now."

"I've heard Vinca talk about her before. I have to say though, Fatty is very odd nickname."

"Oh, he's been called Fatty since we were toddling." Nelly waved her hand. "I can't remember who started it. The boys and Fatty were always really close, but like Estella said I can't imagine him ever leaving the Shire. He's only got more attached to home the more that we leave."

As if summoned by their very voices, Fatty Bolger appeared. "Oh, hello Nelly, Bróin. You haven't seen my sister, have you?"

"Yep," Nelly smiled. "She's just gone back to grandma and grandpa's to see Vinca."

Fatty sighed and rolled his eyes. "Pa told me to escort her to the party and within five seconds she's disappeared."

"Escort us instead," Nelly offered Fatty her other arm and he grinned at took it.

"Alright, don't mind if I do. Do you have this much trouble keeping track of your brothers and sisters, Bróin? I can't imagine having four of them, one is stressful enough."

"Seven. I have seven siblings. The youngest three are still in Erebor," Bróin explained. "Bolin was going to come with us, but he broke his leg a couple of days before we left. Poor kid. Bowin and Olin weren't going to come anyway – our parents thought they were too young for so long a journey. Bowin is five and Olin, well she's just a baby! But yeah, it's hard to keep track of them sometimes."

"I didn't know that." Fatty sounded surprised. "I thought dwarves didn't have so many children?"

"Well, my father never does anything by halves," Bróin said cheerfully. "Luckily, I have a reputation for getting into an awful lot of trouble, so I'm not usually put in charge of the little ones."

"This music sounds pretty good," Nelly commented as they drew closer to the meadow.

"It's the Howling Hornblowers, a band who came up all the way from Longbottom," said Fatty. "I saw them perform a while ago now, they're very good."

"Wow," Bróin murmured as they strode, arm in arm, into the meadow. "I didn't realise that there was so much going on! Games, shows, food – this is more like a festival than a party!"

"Oh, look!" Nelly gasped. "Darts! Let's go play!"

And with that they bounded towards the nearest stall, into a party that they would never forget.

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The Valar willing, I'll see you again tomorrow! Please review if you can/would like to. Until next time, take care.**


	4. Chapter 4: The Song of Storms

**I hope you all enjoy this chapter – there's a song in it to which I've made up the lyrics, but it's based off the song** ** _Lord of the Dance,_** **both the hymn and the Riverdance version. If those mean nothing to you, don't worry, it's just how I imagine a lot of hobbit dances to be!**

 **Please forgive any typos, I hope that you enjoy it!**

 **Chapter Four: The Song of Storms**

Bilbo's organisation was impeccable. The caterers kept a constant supply of food and drink flowing, and when the 'Howling Hornblowers' bowed off of the stage there was another band there immediately to take its place. There were magnificent presents for everyone attending – including the musicians and caterers – and not one of the several hundred guests was lacking something to do.

There were dozens of games set up, for those ranging from their toddling years to adulthood, and there were puppet shows and storytellers (Bilbo and Bofur being the most popular) and the merry atmosphere had even the Sackville-Bagginses smiling.

To say that Frodo was overwhelmed was a slight understatement. When he had first stepped foot in the meadow to the deafening cheers of those nearby, he had turned redder than Gimli's waistcoat, and felt his stomach curl up like a frightened hedgehog. That any party of this magnitude could be for _him_ was rather remarkable – far more remarkable than he was himself, for that matter.

But overwhelmed as he was, Frodo was not surprised. He had been raised by Bilbo, after all. His uncle would do anything for a party, and was well known on both sides of the world for spoiling 'his boys' absolutely rotten when it came to things like this.

"Frodo! Happy birthday!" cried Pearl, running over with flowers in her hair. She kissed him on both cheeks and then hugged him fiercely. "You look wonderful. Come, dance with me!"

Frodo laughed. "We've not been here five minutes! No one is dancing yet."

Pearl clucked her tongue, leaning in as though telling him of the latest scandal. "I _know,_ it's awful. We'd best remedy that at once."

Chuckling, Frodo bowed and held out his hand, and she tugged him over to the dancefloor, which spread out before the stage. There were dancing alone for less than a minute before they were joined by Sam and Vinca and a few others, and soon there were no less than thirty hobbits and several dwarves skipping along to the Howling Hornblowers' song.

They quickly fell into a particularly energetic dance known as the Snapdragon, which involved an awful lot of jumping, and Frodo laughed as Soren and Ehren tried to keep up with the steps. Ehren actually fell over his partner, and had to roll out of the ring lest he be trampled by the hobbits, and Soren got so distracted laughing that he forgot to move out of the way of Esme's leap and got clonked on the nose. Bróin, on the other hand, was doing incredibly well, as was Bifur, to Frodo's surprise. He was dancing with Sam's oldest sister, who had shown her late mother's patience when it came to leading him through the steps.

Frodo glanced over at Sam, and laughed in delight. Vinca was spinning further than she was supposed to, and pushed the lass before her into Sam's arms, taking a startled Tolman Cotton as her partner.

Leaving a startled Samwise Gamgee to dance with a beaming Rosie Cotton.

"Aw," crooned Pearl, glancing over her shoulder at Sam without missing a single step. "They're so sweet together."

"Don't tease him!" warned Frodo, though he, too, was grinning.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Do I _look_ like Nelly?"

Frodo rolled his eyes.

Half an hour later, Frodo could not dance another step, no matter how much Pearl protested. He collapsed onto a nearby bench with Merry, Pippin and Sam, and groaned as Pearl waltzed over.

But instead of dragging him up again, she offered him a mug of ale.

"Thank you," Frodo gasped, taking it eagerly.

"Where's mine?" asked Pippin indignantly.

"Not your birthday," said Pearl lightly. "Are you enjoying yourself Frodo?"

He nodded, grinning wryly. "Aye – not sure I can dance any more though. Not for a while. Are you?"

"Oh yes," she enthused, hardly sounding out of breath at all. "Dwarven balls are all well and good-"

"Pfft!" Pippin snorted, crossing his arms. "You _love_ the balls! You try and convince Thorin to throw them every month!"

Pearl rolled her eyes, though her voice was patient as ever as she spoke to her brother. "Well, yes, I do love a good ball, _but_ there's nothing quite like a hobbit party. I've missed the dances. Ooh! When we get back we should throw a dance, hobbit style!"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, but no one will've grown up learning the steps." Frodo frowned, but then his heart lifted. "We'll have to teach them!"

Pearl sighed happily. "I can't wait." Then she pushed her hair from her eyes. "Drink up, little cousin."

"Excuse me," Frodo raised his eyebrows. "I am of age now, and you most certainly are not. Being two inches taller than me does not make me your 'little cousin'. You are _my_ little cousin."

"Only six months and I'll be of age too!" Pearl pinched his cheeks and then danced out of reach. "Bye-bye, baby Baggins!"

"Don't bother trying to retort, Frodo," said Pippin, sighing heavily. "I've seen her babying Bofur before. I want an ale."

"Go and get one then," Merry said, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from Pippin. Nevertheless, the young Took got to his feet, and scampered away into the crowd, returning with tankards for himself, Sam and Merry.

Together, they did a round of the entertainments at the party, bumping into others along the way, but largely staying as a four. There was no one Frodo was closer to – save perhaps Fíli and Kíli – and by the time Bilbo rang the gong for dinner, he had laughed so much that his lungs ached.

The food had stopped coming a few hours previously, so the announcement of dinner drew enthusiastic applause from the crowd. Frodo ate and ate until he was fit to burst, and then leant back in his chair and listened to the chatter around him.

One of the wolves snuffled at his fingers beneath the table, and he snuck them down a scrap of beef from his stew. He did not dare check which it was – Auntie Dís was not over-fond of wolves at the table, let alone under it.

Slowly, the smattering of cutlery on plates gave away fully to the sound of contented chatter, until someone called out, "Speech! Speech!"

Frodo glanced at Bilbo by his side, and his uncle smiled and stood up.

"Well, all right then," he called indulgently, though Frodo knew full well that Bilbo loved a good speech. For all his talk of being a simple hobbit with simple needs, Bilbo Baggins was a drama queen at heart. "My dear Bagginses and Boffins, Tooks and Brandybucks, Grubbs, Chubbs, Hornblowers, Bolgers, Bracegirdles, Proudfoots-"

"Proudfeet!" roared Odo Proudfoot croakily, shaking his tear trumpet to prove his point.

"Proudfoots, Goodbodies, Brockhouses, assorted dwarves and other guests," Bilbo began. "And oh yes, not to forget the… dear Sackville-Bagginses! To you all, I say welcome and thank you! Thank you all for coming to celebrate my dear cousin's birthday."

Resounding cheers made Frodo's face burn, but he grinned and clapped with a "Hear, hear!"

"While it is also my own seventy-third birthday, I think that we can all agree that Frodo's thirty-third – his coming of age – is infinitely more important. I have had the great honour of raising him for the past twenty-two years, and I am both delighted and proud to say that Frodo Baggins has become a fine young hobbit."

The cheers at these words were louder yet, and there was an explosion of applause. Beaming, Frodo raised his glass appreciatively at Bilbo, who bowed his head and smiled warmly.

"Your parents would be very proud of you," he said softly, "and I am sure that they are here in spirit with you today."

There was a much quieter smattering of applause now, and Frodo smiled sadly. He still missed his parents, and their absence still hurt, but with the help of Bilbo, his family and the Mind Healers of Erebor he had long since made peace with their deaths. When their faces swam in his mind they were smiling and hugging him. They were happy.

Bilbo cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. "After our many adventures and misadventures, there are many stories that I could tell today, but as it is not _my_ day I would like to invite Frodo to say a few words for himself."

Frodo, who had been expecting this, smiled and stood up. "I would simply like to thank everyone for coming, and thank my uncle, aunt and the rest of our family for organising this wonderful party. So please, my friends, drink yourself merry and enjoy the dancing!"

An enormous, tumultuous cheer rose up like a wave at his words, and as if waiting for that very cue the Howling Hornblowers leapt back onto the stage and took up their instruments, accompanied by several young hobbits with their birthday presents. Many little flutes and pipes and drums had been given out by the Bagginses, and within seconds a lively tune was rousing the well-fed crowd.

Frodo danced until his feet felt like rocks, and his hands bore several scratches from the number of people who had grabbed them to demand a dance of their own. The night had grown dark around them, the little ones were falling asleep in their seats and the third band were playing by the time he slumped into a seat to catch his breath.

But he had only been down for a second before Kíli pranced over, and took him by the shoulders. "Alright, Frodo, the time has come."

"The time?" Frodo blinked, but then he saw the glint in the dwarf's eye, and he gave a nervous laugh. "Ah… The drinking game."

While it was perfectly acceptable for an underage hobbit to have a drink or two, getting fully drunk was frowned upon before your thirty-third birthday. It was very similar in Erebor, though the hobbits seemed to have been held to a higher standard than their dwarven counterparts. Merry had suggested it was because they were still so young in numbers, according to what dwarves knew, and Frodo had to agree. As such, Frodo had never really played any drinking games before. He had an awful feeling that it would not end well.

"Don't worry," Kíli said, wrapping his arm around Frodo as he stood up. "We'll look after you."

He ushered Frodo over to a table tucked away behind a large tent, where Fíli, Gimli, Soren, and Bragi were sitting. Fíli patted the seat behind him, and Frodo sat down, looking up apprehensively at Ehren, who stood nearby.

"Right," Ehren declared, "The rules: the judge gives a category and you go around the circle saying something related without repetition or hesitation. If you do, you must empty your drink. Last dwarf or dwobbit standing wins. At least, that's the normal rule. But it wouldn't do to make you vomit on your birthday, so instead the winner'll be the first person to win five rounds. Got it?"

Frodo nodded. "Why aren't you playing?"

"He cheats," said Bragi, passing Frodo a mug. "So it's best if he's the category giver."

"Judge," Ehren said with a frown, and Frodo chuckled.

"Very well… let's go!" he said.

"Wonderful!" Ehren clapped his hands together. "You'll all get the same drinks in the same order. Any spewing and you're out. If at any time you want to surrender, raise your left fist in the hair."

"And don't worry," Kíli said soothingly, patting Frodo's hand. "You're a hobbit and a newer drinker than we, so really you stand no chance, but it's good fun anyway and we'll look after you if you black out. Should the worst come to the worst, there'll be someone to get you home safely. You don't have to worry about anything. Just sit back, play and for the love of all things holy do _not_ let Bilbo see us. Right, over to you, Ehren!"

"Right," Ehren cleared his throat. "The first category… types of flowers."

Frodo laughed as everyone but Kíli groaned, and the game began. To everyone's surprise, Frodo held out for much longer than anyone expected, but by midnight he was dozing on Kíli's shoulder.

"He's dribbling!" Kíli giggled in delight, his own head lolling a little more freely on his shoulders than usual. "Just like when he was, was a baby."

"You still," Fíli hiccupped, "don't know how to hold your liquor, Kee."

Kíli ignored his brother and sighed happily, peering out at the party. Most were not yet quite as inebriated as those who had played the drinking game – in fact Soren and Bragi were up dancing again – and he had no desire to leave so soon. He felt delightfully happy, and his joy was increased by the knowledge that Frodo had not passed out. He had merely fallen asleep.

Already, Kíli's feet had begun to twitch to the beat of the music – he wanted to dance again, and in a few minutes he was sure he would be able to. He gazed up to look at the stars, and frowned.

He could see none. Not one star.

A drop landed on his face. Then another. And another

With a mighty clap of thunder, rain began to pour down upon the party, and shrieks rose up among the guests. The noise was phenomenal, between the rain bashing onto the ground and the chink of it hitting tankards.

Frodo jolted awake with a cry of dismay and Fíli tried to shield his tankard, but Kíli laughed wildly. He tipped back his face further and let the rain wash over him for a moment. Then, he sprang to his feet and grabbed Frodo, pulling him up too.

"Come on, Fee!" he cried, gesturing to his brother as he dragged Frodo towards the emptying dancefloor.

"Come where?" Fíli called back, his arm over his head.

"Wha's goin' on?" cried Frodo, looking almost alarmed. "Kíli?"

"It's raining!" Kíli sang, pulling Frodo into a spin. The young hobbit yelped and stumbled, grasping Kíli's arm firmly, and Kíli paused. "You alright? Are you going to be sick?"

Frodo shook his head with wide eyes, and Kíli laughed again.

"Great!"

Then, he took as deep a breath as he could, and launched into a song he was sure the entire crowd would know – an old, silly nursery song whose popularity had spread even to Erebor.

" _It pours from the skies and crashes on the ground,_

 _It wakens the world with almighty sound,_

 _It bursts all the river banks and floods the lane,_

 _For even wizards cannot tame the rain!"_

A loud whoop came from Nori, who charged onto the dancefloor with Nelly on his heels. Together, they joined Kíli's chorus.

 _"Dance, then, whenever storms may be!_

 _Even when they turn our fields to seas,_

 _For the rain brings life, to hobbits and to trees_

 _And the dance of storms is always sure to please!"_

His hair plastered over his eyes, Bilbo skipped towards them in the dance's familiar steps. For all the claimed the song was a load of nonsense, his smile was wide as he sang.

 _"The roll of thunder is our mighty drum,_

 _And no flute is sweeter than the rain's deep thrum,_

 _And the crack of lightning and the river's hum_

 _Make music greater than the silent sun."_

Pearl, Vinca and Bombur's twins spun in a circle, hand in hand, their feet hitting each other's as the chorus hit its swing again.

 _"Dance then, whenever storms may be!_

 _Even when they turn our fields to seas,_

 _For the rain brings life, to hobbits and to trees_

 _And the dance of storms is always sure to please!"_

No one remained behind, sheltering in the tents. One by two by three by twelve, they dove into the dance, spilling out from the designated floor and onto the tables and stage and field.

 _"No light is brighter than the lightning's strike,_

 _It sears the sky like a bird in flight_

 _And its beauty vast can brighten up the night_

 _As the storm plays on and brings us life."_

Every waking dwarf and hobbit knew the words was singing them as loud as they could. Even the rain could not deafen them, and the sounds of their claps and stomping feet rose stronger than ever they had before.

 _"Dance then, whenever storms may be!_

 _Even when they turn our fields to seas,_

 _For the rain brings life, to hobbits and to trees_

 _And the dance of storms is always sure to please!"_

Never having believed it more in his life, Kíli launched into the final verse.

 _"To dance in the rain is to dance with life,_

 _Be struck and soaked, forget your strife_

 _Call your neighbours out, your children and your wife,_

 _Come and dance together 'neath the stormy skies."_

Mud was quickly being churned beneath their feet, and splashing up their ankles. Shirts were so drenched they clung to skin, all dwarves save Ehren lost their curls to the rain, and ladie's skirts were filthier than they ever had been, but even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins could not bring herself to mind. As her feet clapped and her heart sang, she had to admit, the Bagginses knew how to throw a party.

 _"Dance then, whenever storms may be!_

 _Even when they turn our fields to seas,_

 _For the rain brings life, to hobbits and to trees_

 _And the dance of storms is always sure to please!"_

With a great cheer the song ended, but many continued to dance and sing. The Howling Hornblowers ducked beneath a nearby tent, only to allow themselves to better play their instruments.

Kíli did not know how much time had passed when Frodo slipped straight into his arms. Kíli smiled down at him.

"You alright, Frodo?"

Frodo grunted wordlessly, and Kíli chuckled. He lifted him into his arms as if Frodo was only a baby, but the hobbit did not complain. He just sighed, and let his head fall against Kíli's chest.

Bilbo was there in a heartbeat. "Is everything alright?"

Kíli nodded, resting his forehead against Bilbo's for a moment. "He's just sleepy. I'm going to take him home."

"Alright," Bilbo said, wiping Kíli's drenched hair from his face with a proud smile. "I love you both."

Kíli beamed, and winked. "Love you too."

Bilbo Baggins shook his head slowly as he watched Kíli stumble up towards Bag End. His son was less sober than he seemed to believe, but Fíli and Bragi followed him like magnets, and Bilbo was not worried. He was soaked to the bone, and starting to shiver, and his feet ached and his eyes stung, but Bilbo was happy.

So totally, wonderfully happy. He should have known that his little Kíli would turn a storm into a dance. Kíli had always loved storms. It was why Bilbo loved them now, too. Why the pouring rain just added to the buzz of alcohol and exhilaration still coursing through his veins. There had never been a party quite like this, he was sure. That was what he had wanted, all he wanted, for Frodo.

Everything felt perfect.

Or at least, it would have felt perfect, were not for the ring that grew so heavy in his pocket, and the nagging absence of an old friend in an old, grey hat.

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please, please, leave a review if you can, I would really appreciate knowing how you feel this re-write is going so far. I'll hopefully see you tomorrow!**


	5. Chapter 5: The Knock in the Night

**Thank you to the lovely reviewer of the last chapter! I hope you all enjoy this one, too. Please forgive any mistakes I might have made.**

 **Chapter Five: The Knock in the Night**

Hunched over a steaming cup of coffee, Frodo groaned, and Bilbo shook his head.

"I warned you," he tutted. "If you drink with dwarves, you will regret it in the morning. Here…" He took the coffee and replaced it with milk thistle tea. "That will help far better than coffee will. Trust me."

Frodo grabbed at the cup eagerly, before quickly pulling back his hands.

"Yes, it is hot." Bilbo sighed, but he could not help but smile, and stroke Frodo's dishevelled curls. "What are we going to do with you, my boy?"

Frodo closed his eyes, leaning against Bilbo's hand the way he had done when he was a child. Then he shrugged slightly. "Don't know," he mumbled, sounding half asleep.

Chuckling, Bilbo returned to the pile of dishes left from luncheon. It was well past noon, and while most of the family had dragged themselves down through the drizzle to help clean up the meadow, Frodo had only just risen from bed.

"Bilbo?" he asked, his voice raw from sleep.

"Aye?"

Frodo cleared his throat, staring down at the mug in his hands. "I've been thinking… I'm not – I'm not sure what it is I want, anymore…"

Bilbo paused, dishcloth in hand, and turned to look at his nephew. "In what sense?"

"What I want in my life," he said slowly, his eyes fixed on his tea. "Where – where I want to be, in the future, and…"

"Ah." Bilbo leant against the counter and sipped Frodo's abandoned coffee. "You want to stay here, when we return to Erebor."

Frodo's head snapped up so fast that he winced and rubbed his neck, but even as he did so he shook his head. "No, no! That's not what I meant! But, at the same time… yes. I don't know what I want, or where I want to be. The Shire is still my home, but… it would not be the same if I were the only one here. If – I do not know that I would like it. And Erebor is my home, too. While I am here, I miss the mountain, and the markets and our family there, I miss Thorin… But when I am there, I miss the Shire. The hobbits, the fields, the little rivers… I miss the simplicity of life here. I just cannot seem to make up my mind."

Bilbo sat down across the table and took Frodo's hand. "You may never truly be able to. It is both a blessing and a curse, my boy, to have a heart that dwells in two places at once. Choosing one place will not exile you from the other, and should you wish to stay here, Bag End is yours to dwell in. You're old enough now that it is your choice, and it is not an easy one. But you do not have to make it now. We're not to leave until October's end, after all. You have time."

"I don't think I'll say behind this time," said Frodo quickly, almost knocking over his tea. "But maybe, one day…"

"We'll see," said Bilbo, squeezing his hand. "It's a big world out there, my lad. And wherever you choose to go, I will be with you, one way or another."

Frodo smiled, squeezing Bilbo's hand back. "Thank you."

"Don't be silly," scoffed Bilbo, gently swatting the back of Frodo's head. "That's what family is for, after all. Now, drink up your tea, it will make you feel better."

As he took a sip, Frodo's face curled into the same grimace he had made since he was an infant. "It tastes awful…"

"It does not," said Bilbo. "It's good for you!"

"Uncle Thorin would've put sugar in for me," Frodo said as he took another sip, and Bilbo tutted.

"Yes, well, I'm not Uncle Thorin now, am I? He does spoil you with your food, that dwarf… sugar on tomatoes, I do say…"

"I do like tomatoes now," teased Frodo. "You could never do that."

"Well, that's hardly the point," said Bilbo, puffing up his chest in a display of mock irritation. "My, if folk saw the disrespect I am deal on a daily basis they would be appalled."

Frodo grinned, and stared back at his tea. Then, out of nowhere, he looked up and said softly, "Thank you, Bilbo."

Bilbo smiled, and gave a nod. "You're welcome."

Frodo returned to his tea, and Bilbo to his dishes. A little splinter of guilt eased into Bilbo's heart as he relaxed. He was sure that Frodo, at least for now, would choose to stay with him, with his family, but he knew that it would not be an easy choice. It had not been an easy choice for Sam, for many years. In some ways, Bilbo had it easier. There was no choice, now, for him. He would stay with his wife, with his sons. He had made his place, his nest, and if Frodo wished to fly from it, Bilbo would not clip his wings, but he hoped that his littlest one would stay.

It took said littlest one three days to fully recover from the party, between his hangover, exhaustion and astonishment at having so large a party thrown in his honour. But by the fourth day he was happy enough to traipse to the Green Dragon with his cousins for the evening.

"You'll be asleep before we get back," he promised, following Bofin and Bróin out of the door. "I've got my key. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good night! And don't let your cousins get drunk!" Bilbo added, in a yell that probably sailed right over their retreating heads. Bilbo sighed, but behind him, Kíli snickered.

"Everyone does it at their age, Bilbo. They'll be fine! Let them have their fun – we can laugh at Frodo's second hangover in the morning."

Bilbo did not bother replying – he knew that Kíli was right. He also knew that the less he knew, the better, so he headed to the bathroom for a nice long bath before bed.

Before his last true moments of rest for many a night to come.

* * *

The house was woken by a bang on the door, so loud it sounded like someone was trying to break in. Kíli groaned and rolled over, flattening his pillow over his head.

 _"Frodo,"_ he groaned. "What happened to your _key_?"

The banging rang out again, and Kíli sighed, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and tucking a nearby knife into his dressing gown. Then, he hopped over a stirring Fíli and stumbled to the door.

"Wha's goin' on?" Bragi groaned groggily.

"I don't know," Kíli murmured. "Probably nothing. Maybe something. Come running if you hear me scream."

"Righto," yawned Bragi, though Kíli knew that Bragi was now shaking off his own sleep.

Kíli shuffled to the door, his heart rate increasing now as the knocking on the door grew louder and faster.

"Kíli?" came a sleepy voice behind him. It was Bilbo, and soft, thudding footsteps from the other direction told him that at least one of Bombur's children was awake too.

Glancing over at Bilbo, Kíli shrugged and then peered out of the window by the door. It was dark, but he could just about make out the vague shape of a large, ragged figure in a cloak. Far, far too big to be Frodo, Bofin and Bróin. A chill ran down Kíli's spine and his hand tightened around his knife.

"Who is it?" he barked.

"Gandalf!" a booming voice replied. "It is Gandalf, Kíli Baggins, and I highly suggest that you open the door, now!"

Startled, Kíli paused for a moment, before sliding the bolt across and opening the door. His stomach churned.

It was indeed Gandalf standing outside the door, but Kíli had never seen him in such a state, not even after the Battle of the Five Armies.

His hat was gone, and his hair was matted with blood and filth. His grey robes looked more like brown, but they were splattered with stains of green and black and deep red, and torn far beyond their usual scruffiness. But his attire, for all its filth and holes, was nothing compared to his face.

Gandalf was emaciated. His cheeks and eyes were sunken, and his nose looked as though it had been broken several times, and recently. He was so gaunt that his skin hung looser than ever, his wrinkles all the more pronounced, and he looked more fragile and delicate than Kíli could ever have imagined him. There was a deep gash through one of his eyebrows, sitting in the middle of a green-tinged bruise, and there was blood staining his beard.

It was the eyes that shocked Kíli the most. They were fathomless, empty and haunted, but fear shone on the surface clear as crystal.

"Gandalf!" Kíli cried, flinging open the door. "Come in, come in! You look awful! What happened? Where have you been? Are you alright – are you hurt?"

"One thing at a time, my dear Kíli," Gandalf's mouth twitched towards a smile for just a fraction of a second as he ducked inside. "Where is Bilbo?"

"I'm here," Kíli's father scurried over. "What's wrong?"

The urgency in Gandalf's tone increased further. "Is it secret? Is it safe?"

Kíli's stomach gave an odd sort of lurch – he had an idea that he knew what they were talking about.

"Well, uh, yes, I think s-" The blood drained from Bilbo's face, and he turned to his son. "Kíli, is Frodo back yet? Is he in the Redhead room?"

Kíli swallowed and glanced at Gandalf. "I do not know."

"Go, check, please," Bilbo said, staring up at the wizard as Kíli hurried away. "My dear Gandalf, what on earth has happened to you?"

"I do not have the time to explain it to you, Bilbo, we have precious little time to waste. The nine have risen, I am not certain that I have completely outrun them."

"The nine?" Bilbo repeated blankly.

"We must be swift; you are not safe here."

"What on earth do you mean?" Bilbo spluttered.

"They have been seen in the Shire, disguised as riders in black," Gandalf said hurriedly. "We have barely the time to-"

There was another knock on the door.

Gandalf's eyes hardened and he seized Bilbo's shoulder, hissing in a barely audible voice. "You have bags, pre-packed emergency bags?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Wake them up, wake them all up," Gandalf muttered quickly, his eyes darkening as the door knocked again. "Slowly, quietly. Leave out the back and stay out of sight, make for Rivendell."

"Rivendell?" Bilbo hissed, looking frantically at the door. "Gandalf, there are children here, they are too young to run to Rivendell in the middle of the night! And what are these riders you speak of? If they are as dangerous as your eyes tell me that they are we will not stand a chance!"

Gandalf's lips pursed. " Tell Kíli and the others to hide, that they must be _silent._ Stop anyone from entering the hall in sight of the door. Then hide yourself, Bilbo, and do not come out until I call for you. Go. _Go!"_

Bilbo bustled into the kitchen, his heart banging against his ribs. He caught Kíli coming out of the Redhead room, shaking his head. Bilbo put a finger on his lips, and whispered in his son's ear. "Take Bodin to his sisters, keep everyone silent and keep them inside, out of sight."

"Is everything-"

"Go, Kíli. Now."

With one final, concerned look at Bilbo, Kíli slipped into of the hall. Bilbo scurried after him, turning right in time to catch Fíli, who was stepping out of the bedroom door.

"No, Fíli!" Bilbo put his hand on the dwarf's chest, watching the mild concern in his blue eyes deepen to fear. Keeping his voice as calm as he could, Bilbo pushed his step-son back. "Stay where you are, keep silent, all of you."

"Kíli-"

"Is fine. Now get inside, close the door, and don't make a sound."

A cold, rasping voice travelled down the hall, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

"Shire… Baggins…"

"You will find no Bagginses here!" Gandalf snapped.

Bilbo sped up, keeping his footsteps noiseless as he hurried past his own bedroom, spotting Bofur exiting the furthest bedroom down the hall, where most of the adult dwarves were staying. Once he had convinced Bofur, and the others to stay in their respective rooms, he snuck back towards the front hall, through the drawing room to better hear what Gandalf was saying.

"We were told that Bagginses lived here," the cold voice hissed, "the Bagginses of Erebor. We will reward-"

A sudden craving tugged Bilbo's hands towards his pocket. He fingered the golden ring, and the cold, hissing voice grew louder.

"They are here!"

Gandalf's voice boomed back. "No!"

Bilbo jumped, and he felt the blood drain from his face. Gandalf's instructions flooded back to him, and he darted to the large wardrobe that stood by the desk. He clambered inside, squeezing among the old cloaks, coats, knick-knacks and debris that had been shoved into it. He could hardly fit inside, but he managed to pull the door to. Feeling like a child who had been left with the worst hiding place in a game of hide and seek, Bilbo closed his eyes and listened.

"They are not here," Gandalf was saying, "I don't know who they told you, but they were wrong. I do not know where they are."

"Lies," the voice hissed, "do not lie to me, mortal."

"I do not lie!" Gandalf's voice raised. "Begone from this place!"

There was a pause, and then a shriek that seemed to pierce bone, and the wizard's name screamed from a voice that stopped Bilbo's heart.

"Gandalf!"

 _Frodo._

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter – sorry it's a little short (and perhaps a little more typo-full, though I certainly hope not) but I am rather tired, and did not want to disappoint with the Advent Calendar. Please let me know what you think, and how you suppose a little trip to the pub might change things…**


	6. Chapter 6: Forced Farwells

**Thank you to the lovely reviewers of the last chapter! Here's the next chapter for you all – apologies for any typos. It's rather late and I have work tomorrow. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

 **Chapter Six: Forced Farewells**

Knees swaying beneath him, Merry stumbled after Frodo, back towards Hobbiton. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice wondered if he had drunk too much, if he should have refused the last two half pints. But most of him did not care. Not one bit.

Happiness was buzzing through his veins, and his head felt weightless. It had to be long past midnight – the Green Dragon had closed half an hour ago, and they had finally made the decision that it would be better to walk home than chatter and smoke on the grass outside the pub until morning.

He had not had such a good night in – well, he could not say. It was easily equal to the party, with their being less supervision from parents who failed to see how grown their children were. Well – how grown they were when sober. Right now, Pippin was giggling so much that he could not breathe, and leaning heavily on Merry's arm, Nelly and Bróin were trailing along behind, making fun of Bofin as they went, and Sam had just tripped over his toes.

"I-" Nelly declared, gripping Bróin's arm intently and drawing them all to a halt. They stared at her, and then she hiccupped with a little jump. "Really want some cheesy chips."

"Wha'?" puzzled Sam, gazing blearily up at her with fluttering, half-closed eyelids.

"Cheesy chips. I want some!" she said, swinging her arm to prove her point, and smacking Bofin in the face in the process. "Oops! Sorry."

Bofin did not seem at all affected by the hit – in fact, a rather stupid smile was sliding into place. "Ohh, cheesy chips! Le's, le's ge' some."

"No, we _can't_!" insisted Frodo solemnly, helping Sam up off the floor and back onto his feet. "We'll burn the house down. Whichever house. With ovens. And Nelly will lose her eyebrows again."

Merry snickered, and Nelly shook her head slowly. "I know. It's-" she paused for another hiccup "-tragic."

Merry's stomach growled at the idea of cheesy chips. Nice, hot, fluffy chips and melted cheese, and there was nothing quite like them. Except, maybe – he gasped, and threw out his arm. "Stop! I know what to do! Cheesy scones! We can't burn anything down if there's no cooking involved!"

"Yes!" Nelly gasped. "But where can we get them?"

"Bilbo, Bilbo has cheesy scones!" Frodo said eagerly. "A whole, whole stash of hem."

Bofin pouted, scuffing his boot against the floor. "I don' know. Don' know if Bilbo would li'e tha'. He migh' get angry."

"No," Frodo insisted, shaking his head a little more than was necessary. "He won't mind, and they're my scones too! But, but we should go around the back, so we don't wake everybody up."

"Ah, good plan, good plan," Bróin nodded sagely, his eyes closed as he blew a clumsy ring of smoke up into the sky. "Let's go."

They scurried out of Bywater as quickly as they were able to, and made it to Hobbiton in what Merry was sure was record time. Far less quietly than they thought, they scrambled up around the back of the Hill, avoiding the road to Bag End altogether.

Huffing and puffing, they stumbled over each other, around the backs of the houses of Bagshot Row. All of a sudden, Merry stopped, and his ears twitched. There was something hissing, something that made his toes curl around the grass. He seized Pippin's arm, but his young cousin swayed, and pulled him onwards with a whispered hiss of his own.

"Come on, Merry! Scones'll all be gone!" He began to giggle at himself, and Merry rolled his eyes. "Scones, gone, get it? Get it?"

He had drunk too much, that was all. The alcohol in his veins was putting him on edge, it had to be. Old Balin said that it could do that.

That had to be why he felt so nervous.

Someone grabbed his arm and he jumped, but it was only Nelly. Her other arm was looped through Bróin's, and they were walking with wide swinging steps that landed in front of each's other's feet. Eagerly, Merry joined in, with Pippin on the other side, until they were all linked as a chain, all stumbling over each other's feet, and over the brow of the hill to re-join the road.

Where they froze.

There was someone at the door, a figure so large it had to be a Man, cloaked in black. By the gate stood a large, black horse, that stomped and sent a shriek of a whinny into the night. Turned its red eyes onto them.

The figure at the door turned, staring at them, except – except –

Merry could not see a face. Only a black hood, with a deeper blackness inside. It stepped towards them, let out a shriek that pierced through Merry's whole body, and Pippin collapsed to the floor, and it stepped closer –

 _"Gandalf!"_ screamed Frodo, and for split second Merry wondered why, wondered how an absent wizard could save them, but then a once familiar voice bellowed words that Merry could not understand, and a shattering explosion of white light flooded the garden of Bag End and blinded him and –

He blinked, and blinked, and it was dark again, and the horse and rider had vanished, and a tall, raggedy figure was leaning against the door frame of Bag End.

"G-Gandalf?" he gasped. "Gandalf?"

"Get inside, quickly," the wizard whispered hoarsely, holding open the door.

Tripping over his own feet, Merry scrambled into Bag End with the others. It was just as dark inside as it was out, especially when Gandalf cursed, and slammed the door behind him.

"We were only going to take some scones," Pippin said in a small voice, and Gandalf stared at him, his brows drawing low over his eyes. For a moment, he looked bewildered.

"Scones? That doesn't – Bilbo? Bilbo!"

But Bilbo was already there, seizing Frodo's hand and staring at the group with a face as pale as the naked moon. "Frodo, are you alright? Oh, goodness, Bofin, you're _green_ , are you hurt? What _was_ that, Gandalf?"

"We're not hurt," Frodo said quickly, glancing up at Gandalf.

The wizard was leaning against the door, and in the gloom he looked so, so _old._ Merry shivered, and Pippin's hand wove around his arm.

"That was an enemy more deadly than Smaug," Gandalf said heavily, looking straight at Merry. "And now he has seen you all, and he and any who watch know that you are important. You are no longer safe here. We must leave, there is no time to lose."

"Leave?" cried Nelly, though the indignance in her voice was shaky. "Where? Why?"

"To Rivendell, for now," Gandalf said, turning to Bilbo. "Their parents, where are they?"

"Daisy and Adalgrim's, not five minutes down the road. Oh, but Bombur is in Erebor and the Gaffer's still at the end of Bagshot Row, but Gandalf – what is going on?"

"I have not time for an explanation, my dear Bilbo, nor the will to tell it in the dark. But you are all in grave danger. You have bags packed for such emergencies, do you not?"

"Ours are at home," piped up Merry, unsurprised to hear his own voice shake.

Gandalf paused, leaning heavily on his staff. Then, he called, "Kíli!"

In a second Kíli was there, grim faced with his sword-belt on over his pyjamas and his brother by his side. "What do you need me to do?"

"Take these young hobbits down to their grandparents' house, explain that Bilbo is being hunted, and there is a plot toward the lords and ladies of Erebor. Those who were not out tonight _must_ stay in the Shire – it is far safer, and _we_ shall be safer in smaller numbers. It would have been much better if none of you chose to go out tonight…" Gandalf trailed off for a moment, staring sadly at them. "But they did, and the Rider forced my hand. By banishing him when he approached you, I have labelled you as important to me, and therefore likely a mighty prize – you must flee with us. But your parents, your sisters, they can pass as everyday hobbits, still. And they must. Tell them, Kíli, that they must stay."

Kíli looked utterly stricken. He glanced at Merry and the others, and shook his head. "It was dark, Gandalf, their faces may not have been seen-"

"It is not their faces the servants of Sauron will recognise," said Gandalf, and Merry shuddered. He did not know what that meant, and by the confusion on his face neither did Kíli, but the dwarf took a deep breath and nodded.

"Very well," he said.

"If you see a rider, run," Gandalf said gravely. "Run as fast as you can, and hide, for their eyesight is poor. Call for me, I will come. But if not, make haste, and be back within the hour with any packs they need to travel. Light no torches or candles, if you can help it. Not in sight of a window."

Kíli bowed, and Gandalf barked at Fíli to do the same with Sam. Merry was sure that Fíli had the easier job – the Gaffer was used to saying goodbye to his son. Merry's parents had never been parted with him for longer than two days, and his mother would not think much of being left behind.

The thought of bidding farewell to his parents in such a manner made Merry feel very, very cold.

He did not realise that the door was open until Gandalf struck the back of his ankles with his staff as if he was a wayward sheep. "Quickly, quickly!"

Heart in his throat, Merry hurried down the lane behind Kíli, who looked around more often than a rabbit at dusk. At his side, Pippin was breathing quickly, and Nelly took up the rear with a focus any elf would envy. They had sobered in a matter of seconds, it seemed. The fun of the Green Dragon seemed a hundred miles away. Before he knew it, they had reached reach his grandparents' house, and Kíli knocked on the door. Loudly.

His father pulled open the door. The sleep fell from his eyes at the sight of their pale faces, and the sword on Kíli's hip.

"What-"

"Let us in," Kíli hissed, but Saradoc had stepped out of the way before the last word ended. They hurried inside, and Saradoc grasped Merry's wrist.

"What's wrong?" he demanded, but Merry's words seemed stuck in his throat.

Kíli swooped over and put a hand on each of their shoulders. "I'm sorry, Saradoc, I truly am, but we have no time. We must wake the others, quickly."

"We're already awake," Esme said, tying her dressing gown as she hurried over. "What's happening?"

"When we're together," Kíli said, nodding at the dining room. They gathered around the table in the dark, Merry's grandparents and parents, aunt and uncle, and all four of his cousins. He stood between his parents, so close that their elbows were touching. What little moonlight there was seeped through the curtains, so that Merry could just about see everyone. Every face was strained. Every face turned to Kíli.

The dwarf swallowed, and Merry stared down at his feet. He did not want to look at the fear in Kíli's eyes, or the sorrow. It just made everything worse.

"There's been an emergency," Kíli said slowly. Then, he took a deep breath, and relayed the wizard's message, word for word. It sounded like every word hurt him.

As Merry expected, his mother was the first to reply.

"No."

"Esme-"

"No, Kíli, this isn't fair!" she cried, her hand gripping Merry's forearm. Her nails dug deep into his skin, but he could not bring himself to tug free. Instead, he closed his eyes. "You _cannot_ expect us to stay when you're taking our children-"

Merry could not take it. Not now. "Mama," he said, his heart breaking in time with his voice as he turned to face her, and took her hands in his. "No one has a choice. This is what Gandalf said, so we've got to do it. Rivendell's not far, we'll send word, we'll meet you soon – but you'll just make things worse if you come."

Esme's mouth fell open, and for a moment, Merry was worried he had made things worse. There were tears sparkling in her eyes, heartbreak furrowing her brow, and she did not move. Then, she took a deep breath and looked at Kíli.

"You tell this to the wizard," she said, her voice shaking. Her hands tightened around his. "He better bring you all home. I don't care to which home, either will do. But you best be home, safe, before the spring comes."

"I'm sure we will be," said Kíli, striding around the table and swallowing both her and Merry into a hug. Merry clung to them both, his mother and his Kíli, and prayed with all his heart that it would not be the last time he was able to do so.

Across the table, Ellie wiped her eyes, and murmured, "Leave the little ones with us."

"Ellie," Paladin said, brokenly, before anyone else could speak. "Pippin's young, but if this rider saw him-"

"No," she said sharply, even as she rested a hand on Pippin's shoulder. "I'm not, not talking about Pippin. Bodin and the twins – we can hide them here. You will be faster without them, and they will be safer. Three small dwarflings will not be hard to keep safe, and if these riders do not know of them…"

Kíli paused for a moment, finally stepping away from Merry and Esme. "That's not a bad idea. I'll ask Gandalf."

"Do," she murmured, not looking at him as she tucked Nelly's hair behind her ears. "Please."

The next thing he knew, Merry was in his father's arms. It was a fiercer embrace than he was used to, a painful one, but he did not want to let go.

"You be safe, Merry," Saradoc murmured. "You here me? Do what the dwarves say, stay close to Kíli. He'll look after you."

"I know," Merry mumbled, holding on tighter. It was only his mother that could prise him away. She pressed her forehead up against his, and clasped his face in her hands.

"All for a few half-pints at the Green Dragon, hey?" she murmured, a shaky smile on her face. "Just be careful, Merry. Come back to us, or send for us. As soon as you can. We'll be there."

Merry swallowed and nodded, tumbling into her arms. "I know," he said, forcing strength into his voice. "I know. I'll be fine. And I'll look after Pippin."

For a short while, the house became a flurry of activity as they scrambled in the dark to get their packs, to get their travelling cloaks on and to wake the two wolves that had been calling the small house home. Denahi licked Merry's nose and nuzzled at his neck, and Saradoc strode over.

"You look after my boy, Denahi. You hear?" he murmured, stroking the wolf's ears. Denahi let out a soft howl, and licked Saradoc on the chin.

It did not feel like any goodbye he said would be enough. Merry had always known that one day he would face an adventure without his parents, without his aunt and uncle there, but he had never imagined it would happen like this. Never like this.

"We cannot say farewell to the others, can we?" asked Paladin as he released Kíli from a final embrace.

"I doubt it," Kíli replied, tears breaking over his cheeks. "But we will all meet again. I'm _sure_ of it."

"Right," Paladin said, nodding slowly and stepping back, away from the group by the door. From Merry and Nelly and Pippin and Vinca and Kíli. "Tell them we love them."

"We will," Kíli promised, opening the door. "And they love you too. See you soon."

Then he slipped out of the door, and Merry and his cousins followed suit. Denahi and Kya padded along silently beside them, hackles raised, but neither wolf made a sound. Merry would have felt better if they had growled.

* * *

They wrapped the little ones under their cloaks, praying that the night would keep them safe in its darkness. Bróin could feel Orla's hands clutch his belt tighter, her fists driving her knuckles into his gut. He rubbed her back and peered outside, but he could see no one save Bofur and Bifur, and the lumpy outlines of Ola and Bodin beneath their cloaks.

Without a sound, Bofur slipped out of the gate, and Bifur followed. Keeping low, Bróin followed, his hand still on his sister. He could feel her stumbling in the dark, but she kept her feet well, and she kept them quiet. An owl screeched into the night and she gasped, driving her knuckles into his gut. Bodin whimpered, and Bofur shushed him.

Silence returned.

They moved on, dodging the moonlight and keeping out of sight of most creatures with eyes. Most. If any trace of alcohol lingered in Bróin's veins, he could not feel it. He felt sharp as ever, and put more effort than usual into keeping his feet silent. That was why he had been allowed to go, rather than Bofin. He was quieter. Sneakier. Better with a sword.

Every step seemed to take them only an inch closer to the Tooks' house. Bróin's heart was beating hard in his chest, and the thrill of danger was numbed only by the fact that his little siblings were with him. If they were not, he would be eager to fight.

When they finally reached their destination, Bofur knocked softly on the door, and it opened into darkness.

"Quick!" whispered Esme, her hand seeming to float in mid-air as it reached out from the darkness of the hall. "Quickly now, come inside."

They scurried in, and Orla wiggled out of the cloak, though she kept a tight hold of Bróin's belt.

"This way," murmured Esme, leading them deeper into the hobbit hole. "We've lit candles in the cellar – there's no windows in there."

The warm glow of the approaching room did not seem to settle Bróin's siblings the way he expected it to. Orla still shifted from foot to foot and kneaded his stomach like it was bread, and Ola was still chewing on her hair. Bodin's thumb was still stuck in his mouth, and his other hand stuck to Bofur like glue.

They knew. Or at least they knew that something about this situation was very, very not right.

"Alright," Bofur said, his voice rough. "This is where we say goodbye, for now."

"Goodbye?" gasped Bodin, his thumb falling from his open mouth. "What, what do you mean?"

"You three'll be staying here, where it's safe," Bróin said, because he knew that he could say it with less fear than Uncle Bofur could. "You won't be alone, Esme and Ellie and Saradoc and Paladin are all going to stay, so is Pearl."

"No!" protested Orla, pushing away from Bróin. "No, if you're going, we're coming too!"

"It's too dangerous, and you're too small," Bofur said, clearing his throat and regaining his voice. He crouched down and put a hand on her shoulder. "You'll be safer here. You'll just have to pretend to be hobbits for a while, alright? Don't tell anyone who your Adad is, or Amad. This is very, very important."

The twins looked at each other, and shared one of those strange moments where they seemed to talk without speaking. Then, Ola straightened up.

"We can do that, Uncle Bofur. If you promise that we'll see you again soon, that you'll come and get us when it's safe?"

"And before twenty-two years," added Orla.

"Of course," Bofur murmured, crouching down and holding out his arms. The twins hugged him tightly, but Bodin just remained hanging on his arm, looking utterly dazed. He remained so as the twins hugged Bifur and Bróin. Bifur leant down and hugged him, and Bodin squeezed their uncle tightly with one arm. And kept the other securely around Bofur.

Then Bróin knelt down and grinned at his little brother. "You're the big boy for now, alright? You've just gotta keep it up until I get back, that's all. Then I'll wrestle the title from you again."

"No," Bodin mewled, wrapping his arm around Bróin's neck without releasing Bofur. "No, no, I don't want to be the big boy, stay Bróin! Bróin, stay!"

"I can't," he said, careful to keep his tone matter of fact. "Because Gandalf said so. Are you smarter than a wizard, Bodin?"

His brother hesitated, his lips quivering, and then shook his head.

"Are you braver? More cunning?"

Bodin shook his head again.

"Then you must trust Gandalf, and trust us. We will be back for you, and if we're not, hey – it's a good place to live. If anything happens to us Adad will come and get you, I'm sure of it."

"But I don't want anything to happen to you!"

Bróin paused. "Neither do I, but we have the wizard. We'll be fine. Keep your chin up, alright?"

Bodin wailed softly, but he nodded, throwing his arms around Bróin one last time, before squeezing Bofur so tight he choked.

"Your brother's right, for once," Bofur said, grinning and nuzzling Bodin's nose. "You'll be safe here, and we'll be fine with Gandalf."

"If, if he doesn't just disappear again," hiccupped Bodin. Thinking of the times that Gandalf had disappeared from the story of the quest for Erebor, Bróin silently agreed.

"See you soon, little one," Bofur whispered, kissing him on the forehead. Then he kissed the girls one last time, and Paladin picked up Bodin.

"We've got you lad. It'll be alright, you'll see," he murmured. He met Bróin's eyes and nodded slowly. Bróin nodded back.

And they shared brief embraces in the dark, and then Bifur and Bofur and Bróin pulled their hoods back over their heads, and slipped out into the darkness once more.

 **I really hope you enjoyed that chapter! It's pretty much all new, so that's exciting! Please let me know what you think of the arrangements that are appearing, I'd really love to know.**


	7. Chapter 7: Flames Against the Darkness

**Hey there! A whole week in and I haven't missed a day yet, though I feel I'll regret it waking up at 6 tomorrow for work! Thank you to those who have reviewed so far, I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Chapter Seven: Flames in the Darkness**

Every time that he blinked, he saw the inside of a cage. With every slip of his concentration, his subconscious threw him back into the pits of Mordor, under the thumb of the foulest of Sauron's servants. There was shame as well, broiling in his sunken stomach whenever he thought of his blunder into the same trap that dragged the wretched creature he had been tracking into torture at Minas Morgul.

One moment of misdirected concentration, a blow to the head, and then Gandalf the Grey of the Istari had been rendered helpless as a babe in arms. He had posed a pretty prize for the orcs that restrained him so thoroughly, and he had heard whispers of the Lord Sauron himself expressing pleasure at the wizard's capture. More than once he half wished for the dark lord to show himself, to numb the frustration of knowing that he could defeat every single one of his captors, had he his staff, sword, or even just the use of his hands. But Sauron had never appeared, and his hands had remained bound with wire-like rope from his forearms to his fingertips.

Flexing his scared wrists, Gandalf tightened his grip on the staff that Radagast had gifted him, but the smooth wood did little to bring him back to the present. It was only a reminder of the shards of his own staff, swept away by the hot winds of Mordor. A grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth at the thought of an orc felled by an infected splinter, but it could not chase away the 'what if's that still sought to plague him. It did not matter what would have happened if Radagast had not found him before the orcs did, because that had not happened. Likewise, it was unimportant what would have come to pass if the Nazgûl had garnered all the information that they needed on dear old Bilbo before Gandalf was able to escape. It did not matter, he told himself, but it still irked him, the oddity in his hazy timeline.

Seven years. It had taken Gandalf seven years to escape from Mordor. To his knowledge, Gollum had been captured before he had, but he doubted the creature would have lasted a single year under torment. Not without his Precious in any case. Perhaps he was mistaken, and Gollum had been captured later, or had held out for longer than expected. Perhaps it had taken the dark lord a long while to interpret his new prisoner's screeches. It might have been that Gollum was not deemed important for a time, when they had captured such a powerful prisoner as Gandalf. The wraith of a creature could have been forgotten about for years, lost and recaptured, or perhaps he had been in league with the enemy all along.

No story made sense, but Gandalf had not had time to search for proof or evidence. He had escaped barely a week before the nine rode out together from Minas Morgul, and from the moment he guessed their task it had become a desperate race.

His enemy had won the first leg – when Gandalf reached Erebor he had learnt that a rider in black reached its gates weeks before he had – and that others had been seen as recently as the day before. They had asked for Bilbo by name, Thorin said, reporting the death-laced promises they had begun with, and growling out the threats that had followed behind. The dwarves had sent word to the Shire, but heard nothing, and the previous day they had watched the messenger join eight others over the plains, and ride into the east.

Gandalf had known then that he must use every single drop of energy clinging to his wasted body and fly. He had to reach the Shire before the enemy. Thorin had all but threatened him, demanding that the wizard rest, or at least see a healer, but there had not been time to waste.

Now more than ever, he was grateful for his own stubbornness. If he had accepted the invitation, if only for an hour, he would likely have arrived to find a massacre.

"Gandalf," a light, lilting voice tugged him from his thoughts.

"Peregrin Took," he smiled wryly, gazing down at the hobbit who had ridden to his side. "How can I help you?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted this," Pippin stood up in his pony's saddle to pass Gandalf a cloth wrapped package. There was an odd sort of look about his face, an innocence that was, for once, unfeigned. His smile was small and meek, and his eyes showed no trick or glimmer of trouble. It was rather uncommon, from the wizard's memory, of the young hobbit who so idolised Fíli and Kíli.

Gandalf frowned slightly and unwrapped the package, and the frown instantly melted into a smile. It was a cinnamon bun, Pippin's favourite treat, if he remembered rightly. And it was the seventh time that day that a hobbit had given, offered, or forced him to take an item of food. They had eaten lunch but an hour ago.

"Thank you, my dear Pippin, but wouldn't you rather snack on this yourself?" Gandalf offered it back, but Pippin smiled and shook his head.

"Oh no, I have twelve. Grandma gave them to me before we left, for the road. Merry says they'll only last me a day, but they're not at their best much longer than that. Then they go stale," he said. "You take it."

Gandalf smiled, and bowed his head. "Thank you."

Pippin smiled back and nodded, and then fell back to ride beside his cousin.

Another pony quickly replaced the tween's, and its owner gave a soft smirk. "So, how much food have you been given today?"

"Oh, enough to feed a small army, I am sure," said Gandalf, wrapping the bun again and tucking it into his saddle bag. "It is very kind of you all. Do I truly look so awful?"

"Well, if truth is indeed what you seek, then I must say yes," Bilbo's tone was light and conversational, and Gandalf loved the halfling all the more for it. "It reminds me of my first trip to Lake-town, when I was skin and bone myself. The dwarves were in and out of my room every hour or so, feeding me up. Not that I minded, of course. It was the first time I'd had a decent amount of food in weeks. But, I have to say, you do look worse."

"Looks are not everything, but indeed, I have been of better health. Still, I will survive, if only thanks to the nutrition your kin provide."

Bilbo chuckled. Glancing over his shoulder, Gandalf looked at the group behind him. They were moving fast, for a group of so many, but it was not fast enough. Their pace had slowed since dawn.

"Cutting cross country should take some time off our journey, Gandalf, as well as keeping our route unknown." There was a little concern seeping into Bilbo's voice now. "No one save the Tooks and Brandybucks know where we are going, and they will not be quick to talk. They also know to keep torches burning, in case of any black-robed callers that overstay their welcome."

Gandalf sighed, and tried not to think of the how little torches would help a village full of helpless hobbits should Black Riders attack. "Yes, I do think staying off of the road would be best."

"Are you going to tell us what is pursuing us?" Bilbo lowered his voice. "You said you would not speak of it in the dark."

"And I would not tell it in the open," Gandalf said sharply.

"Will you tell it at all? Or would you have us run from a nameless fear? We are afraid, Gandalf. We are all afraid. And we deserve to know why we are afraid."

Gandalf glanced over his shoulder at where Pippin was laughing with his cousin. He closed his eyes. It felt, somehow, that his task had become the bringer of ill-fate. The destroyer of innocence.

"They have seen horror before, Gandalf," Bilbo said quietly.

"Very well." Gandalf gazed at the sky. "If we ride hard, now, until dusk is almost upon us, we can make camp while it is still light. Then, I will tell you call I need to know."

The entire group sped up, and soon they were making a pace that Gandalf could hardly have hoped for. It seemed that the wolves were in their element, and Gandalf could not help but wonder as a three-legged wolf baring a full-grown hobbit outstripped his own horse.

Miles slipped by and dusk grew nearer, and finally Gandalf called them to a stop beneath a cluster of trees. The ponies were frothing at the mouth, and staggered to a halt, and the panting wolves flopped straight to the floor, rider and all.

The exhausted travellers set up their camp with ease, and gathered around an impressive fire. The wizard sighed and spoke in a low voice. "How many of you know the tale of the dark Lord Sauron, who plagued this world in ages past?"

"Fíli tells it to us," Vinca said. "Every time we go to Rivendell, we visit the sword and the mural. It's become a tradition. Why?"

Gandalf took a deep breath. "You all know then, of the Ring of Power?"

"That was thing that gave Sauron his strength, was it not? It was lost when Isildur cut it from his hand." Frodo's eyes darkened. "Wasn't it, Gandalf?"

"It was lost," Gandalf closed his own eyes. "But, it has been found. And it is currently sitting in Bilbo's pocket."

Every head swivelled to look at the hobbit, who in turn blinked and looked down at his waistcoat. The colour drained from Bilbo's face. "What? No? No! Really? Ah. Alright. Well. In that case." Dís put a hand on her husband's arm and Bilbo stopped talking.

"Unfortunately, the creature Gollum, from whom Bilbo acquired the ring, knew Bilbo's name and where he hailed from. I searched everywhere for Gollum, but I was delayed by the enemy. When I escaped, I learnt that the Black Riders had set forth. I knew then, that my suspicions were correct. Bilbo's ring was the One Ring, and the Riders were aware of it."

"What are these riders?" Nori interrupted. "You said they're more terrible than Smaug."

"They are Ringwraiths. They were once men, but they were corrupted by Sauron. They inspire terror wherever they go, and they use it as a weapon. Their breath is poison, their aim is deadly, and their leader is known as the Witch-King. They are drawn to the ring, and ever seek to return it to their master. If they find you," his eyes fell on Bilbo. "They will kill you. But your political importance is such that they will not leave the rest of you in peace, should Bilbo go ahead or… fall behind."

There was a long moment of quiet.

"Well, that all sounds awful," Nelly said. "So, what's the plan?"

"We will make for Bree," Gandalf said immediately. "I have a friend waiting for us there, and he will escort the rest of you to Rivendell while I ride ahead with Bilbo. He knows of how to fight these beasts and his skill is great."

"You may tell us how to fight these beasts," said Gimli indignantly, "before you entrust our lives to a stranger."

Despite himself, Gandalf smiled. "This friend is not a stranger, my dear Gimli, and even he cannot truly defeat them. What we can do, is disrobe them. Should you utterly destroy their helm, with fire, for instance, they must return to Mordor so that Sauron can give them another physical form." It was a simplistic explanation, but it would have to do. Gandalf was too weary to try and explain the intricacies of the wraiths.

Nelly snorted with laughter, and everyone stared at her. "Forgive me. I'm just imagining an awfully evil wraith popping back to Mordor. 'Hello, Mister Dark Lord Sir, I'm sorry, can I have another robe please? Lost the last one.'"

"It isn't funny, Nelly." Bofin said, a heavy frown on his rotund face.

Nelly's eyes darkened slightly. "Our situation isn't funny, no, but if we all sit around acting like the end of times is coming that won't help anything either. Gandalf, you said that they feed on fear? Well, I won't be scared of them."

"You have a brave heart, child," Gandalf said. "I hold hope that it will endure. But the Nazgûl can make the very bravest hearts quake."

Silence fell again, and Gandalf closed his eyes once more. Dark was falling now, and their path was growing more dangerous. He had not envisioned fleeing with so large a group. Even with those left in the Shire, they were twenty-one, if he counted himself. To leave any behind would be a death sentence.

Gandalf did not sleep a wink. All night he sat awake, sucking on his new pipe (pressed into his hand that morning by a chattering Kíli) and staring into the darkness. Not even an owl disturbed the night, and when dawn broke and he woke his companions there was naught to see but mist.

They rode hard the next day and covered good ground. When night fell, they set up camp again, and as the moon rose to its height, Gandalf thought that he might catch a few moments' rest. Nori and Dís were on watch, and their eyes were keen and sharp.

The wizard closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, banishing the fragments of memory that assaulted his weary mind. He soon drifted into a sleep of murky half-dreams and disembodied voices.

And then he was woken by a scream.

He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around with bleary eyes as more, cursing the exhaustion that slowed him.

He knew at once that the Black Riders had found them – they let off an aura of fear was so thick it poured down hi throats, but the company around him screamed regardless. No less than four wraiths had cantered down upon them, and as Gandalf forced himself to his feet, an icy thrill ran through him. Did he have the strength to banish _four_?

Even as he raised his staff, he saw Pippin struck by the foot of a horse and cast to the ground, where his head fell but an inch from the spluttering fire. Gandalf turned, but already the rider was bringing his sword down towards the stunned hobbit.

Before the wizard could blink, Fíli was there. He threw himself down on top of Pippin, and the sword struck across his back, sending him tumbling down on top of the young hobbit. Gandalf's heart seized, and a inhuman roar ripped apart the night.

Teeth bared and wild eyed, Vinca Took leapt through the flames, and with one throw thrust a flaming branch into the hood of the wraith. As it screeched, she turned, and swept her sword with the skill of a master, and the horse that had struck her brother fell dead. The wraith fled.

Breathing heavily, Vinca turned on the spot, scanning for her next target, but Gandalf had not been idle in the seconds that passed. With a spell that stole the breath from his lungs, he cast a beam of white light at the next closest wraith, sending it screaming after its fellow.

Almost in the same moment, the third rider lit up like a torch, and though Gandalf did not know who had set the flame, he saw Bofur's mattock crush the skull of its steed, ending the corrupted creature's miserable existence. Gathering his strength like water in a sieve, Gandalf pointed his staff at the final wraith. Even as the shouted the spell, he could feel his body bending lower, his legs shaking beneath the weight of his frail form. The blast that shot from the end of his staff knocked him backwards, but before he could fall, two strong hands pushed him back onto his feet.

"Are you alright?" asked Kíli, his breathing heavy and his face pale. "Are they gone?"

Catching his breath, Gandalf looked around quickly, and nodded. The surviving horse was galloping away, but the wolves took it down before his eyes.

And then he heard Pippin cry out. "Fíli? _Fíli_!"

Without a word, Kíli bolted from Gandalf's side and crashed onto his knees at his brother's side. Gandalf's heart stammered as he turned himself, and staggered to where Fíli had fallen with as much speed as he could muster. Pippin had crawled out from beneath him, and was shaking the dwarf's shoulder.

Fíli groaned, and grabbed the hobbit's wrist. "It's alright, Pippin. I'm fine. Just bruised – the wretch hit my shiny shirt."

"Shiny shirt?" worried Gandalf. Fancy clothing would not protect Fíli from a Morgul blade, even if the initial blow did little damage.

"Oh, thank Mahal," breathed Kíli, a weak smile creeping onto his grey face. "Had me worried for a moment there, Fee."

"Mithril," Dís said, meeting Gandalf's eye. "Thorin gave the boys shirts of Mithril, before that cursed battle."

Relief threatened to steal what strength Gandalf had kept in his legs and he swayed, but again he was steadied, this time by Frodo. The young Baggins did not say a word, but held Gandalf's arm, and steadied his staff.

"Is everyone alright?" Bilbo called, voice tighter than a drum. "Is anyone hurt?"

"Bruised, but alright," Fíli said, pulling himself into a sitting position with a wince. "Pippin's hurt."

The young Took blinked, and lost his remaining colour. "I am?"

"You were struck in the chest by a horse," said Fíli seriously. "You'll have as bad a bruise as I, I'd wager, maybe worse."

"Oh, goodness," Bilbo murmured, rushing to their side as Pippin stared blankly down at his chest. "It struck him full on?"

Fíli nodded gravely. "Aye, right and true in the centre of his chest. Not sure that it meant to, though, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He put a hand on Pippin's shoulder.

Gandalf cursed, lowering onto his knees beside them. If the smallest hobbit among them had been struck in the ribs by a steed of Mordor, the damage could be dear indeed. Bilbo was already helping Pippin unbutton his shirt and waistcoat, revealing an angry, swelling above his heart. But the young hobbit was breathing without fault, and Gandalf could feel no sign of broken ribs, nor great internal bleeding. After a few furtive moments, he reassured himself that Pippin would only bruise. Then, he reassured the others.

"We shall keep an eye on you, Master Peregrin, and you shall feel the pain once the adrenalin fades, but if we are lucky and careful, you will make a recovery in no time. Fíli, now you." The dwarf began to protest, but Gandalf cut him off. "I do not wish to stay in this place any longer than we must – we should move, and move quickly – but first I will check your wounds."

Fíli sighed, but bared his back without complaint. When he was reassured that there was no greater damage than a severe bruise, Gandalf nodded.

"Collect your things," he ordered. "We move out now. The ponies will have fled, but-"

"They haven't," Nelly said, her voice shaking slightly. "Well, aye, I mean, they did, but the wolves have herded them back."

Another wave of relief crashed over him, so unfamiliar that he could scarcely believe it until his hands found his horse's reins.

They were mountain their steeds when Pippin cried, "Wait!"

"What is it?" demanded Gandalf, as Bilbo cried, "What's wrong?"

"Vinca," Pippin said, half-wondrously, half-appalled. "You never even _came_ to the Green Dragon!"

Gandalf turned quickly to look at the young lass. Far from the far-clad warrior he had seen earlier, she looked the picture of a High Lady. Unassuming, hair and clothes in place, that practised calm on her face. Now that he thought back, Gandalf could not recall her being among the original group outside Bag End. She gave a delicate shrug, and a sad smile, and gently moved her hair over her shoulder.

"I thought I'd be more use here," she said.

The flaming wraith seared into Gandalf's mind, and he found that he had to agree.

"It was a brave decision," he said sombrely, "though I would have – and did – suggest otherwise."

Vinca inclined her head respectfully, and said nothing.

Clearing his throat, Gandalf urged his horse onwards. "If we make haste, we can make it to the Old Forest by daybreak. We will rest then – the trees may offer some shelter."

"Shelter?" Sam said faintly. "In the Old Forest?"

Nelly shook her head and held up two hands, miming a scale. "Nazgûl, Old Forest. Old Forest, Nazgûl. I think the Old Forest will be quite alright."

"The best of a bad situation," Sam said darkly. "Lead the way, Mister Gandalf."

Soon, too soon, they were riding again, with naught but what little light the wizard dared risk to guide them.

Gandalf closed his eyes, and saw the inside of a cage.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Slightly less changes here, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless! I liked writing it. Do let me know what you think if you have a chance!**

 **ALSO: I forgot to mention last chapter, if you want to read an amazing story about young hobbit nobility being fostered by hobbits in the Shire for their own safety, read** ** _Winter with a Burglar_** **by Dwarven Lass. It's hilarious, beautiful and very well done, and one of my favourite fics!**


	8. Chapter 8: Fear Not This Night

**Thank you to my lovely reviewer – I truly appreciate it so much! Please forgive any mistakes in this chapter, and I hope you enjoy it.**

 **Chapter Eight: Fear Not This Night**

"…and then he – _turned her into a spider!"_ Thorin roared, tickling the two children in his lap before they could get away.

"Stop, stop!" Frerin squealed, but his sister just laughed, and tried to tickle Thorin back. Her clumsy little fingers had little effect, but he laughed anyway, and ended his attack.

"Again, again!" Eyja begged, wiggling around so that she could face him. "Again, Uncle Thorin!"

"Oh, I don't know," Thorin drawled, pausing for effect as Dwalin's children pleaded. It was hard to hide his smirk. For some, babysitting was a chore. For Thorin, it was a brief few hours to escape the worries that plagued him. He tried to commandeer his niece and nephew at least once a week, but it had been a while, between all the news that they had been given of late. "Was that not a bit… scary?"

"A bit," Frerin nodded, but Eyja just giggled and shook her head.

Thorin had been expecting that, for Eyja was famously unafraid of anything. Dwalin occasionally despaired that something had gone wrong during pregnancy, and all Eyja's fears had been left in the womb for her brother to pick up, five years later.

Indeed, while little Frerin had once been spooked by his own shadow, Thorin could count on one hand the number of times he had seen Eyja cry since she stopped teething, and he had never really seen her afraid. As such, telling her scary stories was always an interesting challenge, with a no lack of danger involved. He knew full well that if he did miscalculate, and truly terrorise either of the children, Elza would not care if he was the king at all, and would likely box his ears.

"Very well," Thorin drawled, leaning back on the sofa. "But it's a little late to hear it _again…"_

Frerin's lower lip wobbled, and tears sprang to his little eyes, but Eyja clicked her tongue and put her hands on her hips, tucking her chin in the exact way her Uncle Balin would when he was telling Thorin what a fool he was being.

"Uncle Thorin," she said. "Really-"

The door crashed open and Thorin stiffened, drawing in breath to roar at whoever dared interrupt story-time, when Frerin gasped, "Adad?"

Thorin turned to see Dwalin standing before him, breathing heavily. "Thorin – there's another one."

Icy fear and blazing anger clashed uncomfortably in Thorin's veins and he got to his feet. Eyja and Frerin tumbled easily onto their feet, and ran towards their father, but Dwalin shook his head.

"Your mother's coming," he said sharply. "Stay here."

"But I want to see," insisted Eyja, following them to the door. Thorin could not really blame her – she was unused to being excluded from anything. As a child of the high nobles, she was often allowed to play by Thorin's feet during meetings, or be the first to see visiting dignitaries, as long as she behaved herself. But if this was anything like the last time…

"No," Thorin said, firmly. "You stay here. Do you understand?"

Eyja looked stunned, but she nodded, and sat down on the spot. Closing the door behind them, Dwalin and Thorin charged towards the gates.

"What is the situation?"

"Another rider, in black. Doesn't feel like the last ones, though – he has a different aura. Equally dark, but different. He's demanding to speak to you – and I think you have to. And we just received word from Nori's lads-"

"That can wait," said Thorin, tightly. His priorities, now, were not to the east. If one more vile slug of Mordor asked about Bilbo, or his nephews, he would not be answering to Balin for a lack of diplomacy. He thought he had made himself perfectly clear the last time.

As if reading his thoughts, Dwalin said slowly, "He has not mentioned Bilbo. Once."

Thorin almost stopped walking. "He has not?"

"No."

Thorin swore under his breath, and sped up. In minutes, they reached the guardhouse, and it did not escape Thorin's notice that the guards looked more than a little uneasy. He strode to the top of the balcony and glared down.

As with the last time, it was a single rider, but Dwalin was right. This one seemed almost more human – more solid. Its aura seemed to come from its foulness, as opposed to the black magic he had suspected from the previous riders. But it mattered little.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Who comes to disturb the peace of Erebor?"

"I wish to speak to the King," the Rider replied.

"You just did," Thorin growled. "Speak now – who are you, and what do you want?"

"I am the Mouth of Sauron," the rider said, and his voice sent a chill down Thorin's spine, "an envoy from Lord Sauron the Great. We offer to you the hand of friendship, and we will reward you greatly, with rings such as those wrongfully claimed from you in the days of old."

Thorin laughed coldly. "You speak as though you offer something great – I am sure you heard that I turned down those who preceded you. You will have no more luck than they. What is it you want? Speak plain, and quickly."

The Mouth of Sauron seemed to grin, though it was too far away to discern a face beneath his helm. "Your allegiance. In coming months we will be marching through these lands, on the way to the greatest victory this earth has ever seen. Should you offer us friendship, you will be richer than ever before. If you oppose us…" A laugh colder than Thorin's rose through the air, and behind him the guards shuffled uncomfortably. "If you oppose us, your city will be ravaged, and your people slaughtered. We will raze your mountain to the ground, and you will not even form a footnote in the great history of our age."

For a moment, Thorin was as stunned as young Eyja. Who would be so bold as to make a threat like that? Alone, afore the gates of so great a kingdom?

"I know your spies have seen our armies," said the stranger. "You know I do not lie."

Thorin glanced at Dwalin out of the corner of his eye, and saw his friend nod a fraction of an inch.

"What say you, Thorin Oakenshield?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows, his face contorting into a scowl. "What say I? What say I? I will not extend friendship to the wretched beggar that threatens me at my own door!" he roared, and all over the mountain ravens fled their roosts. "Nor will I ever ally with Sauron the Black, the Traitor! That is my answer! Begone, ere our arrows fly!"

"You will regret-"

"I will not!" bellowed Thorin, leaning over the balcony. "Unlike you, I threaten not without means to back it up! Begone, or you will be dead before your next breath."

With a curse, the Mouth of Sauron turned, and galloped into the gathering darkness. Breathing heavily, Thorin turned to his pale guards. They clutched their weapons with trembling hands, but drew their shoulders back to attention.

"Do we shoot, my lord?"

"No," Thorin snarled regretfully. "To do so would start open war. That, I would put off as long as possible. But from now on, we ready for battle."

* * *

In the darkness beneath the trees, Kíli was suffocating. They had indeed reached the Old Forest by daybreak, but they had been resting for only a few hours when Gandalf gently insisted that they moved on. An hour ago, night had fallen again, and Gandalf's staff was their only source of light. He said it would be unwise to light fires in the forest, even for torches.

As his heavy eyelids threatened to close, Kíli longed to slip onto the front of Bilbo's pony and go to sleep. But he was almost one hundred years old, and less than three months away from being officially of age. More importantly, he was too big, and he would probably knock Bilbo clean off of the pony.

Still, as the night wore on and on it became more and more tempting just to jump off Luno and onto Bilbo's pony. Or join Fíli on Sitka's back. Both the wolf and his brother would probably be able to take it. He yawned.

A whispering sound near Kíli's ear snapped his head to the right. There was nothing there, nothing but the trees. Quashing the crawling feeling in his stomach, Kíli wrapped his fingers through Luno's fur. The wolf looked up at him slightly, and gave a soft whine. Then he let his head drop again. Kíli massaged Luno's neck. The poor creature was tired too, and rightly so.

Kíli felt his own eyelids begin to droop once more. The eerie forest maybe be keeping some of the others on their toes, but Kíli just wanted to sleep. The earthy smell of the forest was homely, comforting even, for one who had grown up in the Shire, and if he pretended that the whispers were coming from his friends they were not so frightening. His mind began to drift, and he imagined the sound of faraway singing.

"Oh," Gandalf, who was at the front of their column, sighed just loud enough for Kíli to hear him. Relief poured through his tone. "Thank goodness." Then he barked loudly enough to wake Kíli entirely. "Quicken the pace! Just for a while now!"

The wizard spurred on his horse, and their line sped up, though the ponies nickered and wolves whined in protest. As they rode, the singing grew louder, and Kíli realised that it was not in his mind at all.

 _"Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!_

 _Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling."_

The voice sounded strong and clear, and something about it made Kíli believe this was a friend. Well, that and the fact that Gandalf was riding towards the sound as fast as his horse would go.

 _"Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,_

 _Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,_

 _There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,_

 _Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water."_

Louder and louder the singing grew, and Kíli's curiosity was fully piqued by the time they entered a spacious clearing. Gandalf drew his horse to a halt, and their company came to a faltering stop.

The wizard took breath, then called out. "Master Bombadil, is that you?"

The singing stopped rather abruptly, and then it picked up again, coming closer and closer and closer.

 _"Old Tom Bombadil, water-lilies bringing,_

 _Comes hopping home again. Who can hear him singing?_

 _Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o!_

 _Calling out to Bombadil, are you Bombadillo?"_

All of a sudden, a man leapt out from the tree on the other side of the clearing. Several of the dwarves seized their weapons, but Kíli's instincts were still distinctly more hobbitish, and he studied the man curiously. He wore a bright blue jacket, and worn yellow boots, and he had a basket over his wrist, brimming with lilies.

When the man's sharp eyes fell on Gandalf, his grin broadened. When he spoke, there was a lyricism about his voice, and he kept the rhythm of his song. "O! Ho! Olórin, t'was you that was a-calling! Come to visit Tom and his sweet Goldberry this morning?"

"Tom Bombadil," Gandalf smiled, shaking his head and dismounting. Though wizard dwarfed the man, Kíli supposed that the stranger could be no taller than Fíli or Ehren. "It is good to see you, my old friend. Though, I wouldn't quite call this 'morning.'"

"It is the hour past midnight," Tom winked, "what most folk call the morning. Though I'll admit it's not the time that most my friends come calling. What brings the young Olórin to my woods at such an hour? Your friends appear a weary lot, and a couple rather sour."

The man nodded at Bofur, his eyes twinkling, and Kíli smothered a laugh. Sour was indeed a very accurate description of his face – the usually cheery dwarf looked rather as though he was sucking on a lemon. Then something about Tom's words piqued his interest. Young Olórin? How old was this Tom Bombadil, and if he was not a man what was he? Was this the friend that Gandalf had said would be waiting in Bree?

As Kíli considered this, Tom Bombadil's brow furrowed, and he looked at Gandalf for a long moment. It appeared almost as though they were conversing thought words or movements, and then Tom gave a gentle smile. "My borders will dispel the foes that hunt you for this evening. Come now, follow Bombadil. To home now I am leading. You're all in need of beds and warmth, and Goldberry is cooking. If what you want is board for night you all can finish looking."

"You are most hospitable, my old friend, thank you," Gandalf bowed so low that his nose grazed his knees, and then turned to look at the others. "Everyone, this is Tom Bombadil, the Master of Wood, Water and Hill. He's offered us a safe place to stay for the night, and I for one will not refuse him. He is an old friend of mine, and there is no safer place than his home."

Ehren opened his mouth to argue, but was prodded by Soren (who had been given a pointed look by Dís) he held his tongue, and Kíli was glad. He was too tired for arguments, especially between someone as pig-headedly stubborn as Ehren. If Gandalf trusted Master Bombadil, so did Kíli.

Thorin gave a sharp nod, and Tom Bombadil sprang back into the trees, singing as he went.

" _Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!_

 _Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle._

 _Fear neither root nor bough! Tom goes on before you._

 _Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!"_

Gandalf mounted his horse once more and followed the strange, singing man, and Kíli nudged Luno to begin walking again. "Just…" he yawned. "Just a little further now, Luno. Just a little further…"

As he spoke, Tom Bombadil's song continued, clear as ever, though it sounded a little further away.

 _"Hey! now! Come hoy now! Not far now to wander._

 _For pained paws and aching hooves salvation is up yonder,_

 _A resting place, a safer place, where Goldberry is waiting._

 _Soon to sleep, and high hay heaps and misery abating."_

Luno's head pricked up slightly, and Kíli felt the wolf speed up just a little. A little spring returned to his step, and his breathing eased. Something about the man's songs seemed to hearten the beasts, dwarves, and hobbits alike. They rode through the darkness for another half-hour, Tom singing all the way, until finally Kíli spotted a light beyond that of Gandalf's staff. They drew closer and closer, until they came to a little house.

Tom Bombadil was standing outside the open door, a warm smile on his face. A welcoming light poured from the open door and spilled around him. "Don't worry, all will fit inside, we can make room for sleeping. My lovely Goldberry is home, and your needs we'll be keeping."

"The floor will be more than enough, Tom," Gandalf said, slipping down off of his horse again. "The mere presence of a roof is a comfort."

"A dozen beds my Goldberry has managed to a-conjure, and we have many blankets more, for every weary wanderer," Tom decreed. A woman slipped out of the door behind him, golden hair rippling over her shoulders and a curious glint in her river green eyes. Her beauty stole Kíli's breath for a moment, and he understood why Tom sang so much.

"Lady Goldberry," Gandalf bowed low, and then kissed the hand that the lady offered. "It has been too long."

"Indeed, it has, my dear Olórin," she said, with a voice more musical than any Kíli had heard. "Come, friends, refresh yourselves, there is food upon the table. My Tom will lead your steeds to the stable, and see that they are fed and comfortable. Come in."

Kíli slipped off Luno's back and scratched his ears, pressing a kiss to the wolf's snout. Luno licked the dwarf's nose, and then plodded slowly towards Tom. Kíli followed Gandalf into the house, Bilbo and Frodo at his heels. Goldberry led them in single file down the hall, and pointed to a room with a slanting roof and several large basins.

"Please, wash your hands and faces, and if you wish do hang your coats and cloaks in the corner. When you have finished, please come and join us for some food, unless sleep is more appealing." She smiled, and disappeared back down the hall, past the wary dwarves and tired hobbits filling up her corridor.

The water was cool, but not too cold, and Kíli scrubbed gratefully at his weary face. Maybe now he would not sleep through dinner – he was sure his stomach would thank him for that.

But as the others washed, and wandered into the hall, Kíli noticed Bilbo linger by one of the basins. The hobbit was staring down, but his eyes were unfocused, as if he saw nothing at all. His hands kept moving over one another, until they were red and wrinkled from the cold water.

When a yawning Pippin had followed Merry out of the room and left them alone, Kíli grabbed a nearby hand-towel. Without a word, he turned off the tap, and wrapped the towel around Bilbo's hands. Then, he waited for his father to meet his eyes.

Slowly, Bilbo's gaze met his, and he gave a weary shadow of a smile. "Thank you, my boy."

Kíli inclined his head, and waited for Bilbo to continue. The smile faltered, and Bilbo shook his head with a sigh.

"Kíli, I am so sorry."

"What for?" asked Kíli, though he already had a rather good idea. "This is no more your fault than the Battle of Hobbiton was mine."

"I know, I know!" sighed Bilbo. "But Bofur _warned_ me, he warned me decades ago that he thought it was no good."

"A murmur in Mirkwood, out of context," Kíli said firmly. "You had no way of knowing that anything like _this_ might have happened."

"No," admitted Bilbo. "But… by Mahal, I thought – when Pippin – and _Fíli…_ I never wanted to put anyone in danger, Kíli. Least of all my, my family. But it was me they were looking for – me who drew them to you. I cannot stand it."

Kíli swallowed, staring at the tears sparkling in his father's eyes. Then he threw his arms around Bilbo, and rested his chin on his hobbit's shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry, too."

Bilbo's arms wove around Kíli, and he pressed his hand into the back of Kíli's head. "If anything happened to you, Kíli," he whispered, " _anything –_ I do not think I could stand it."

"It won't," Kíli promised. "I'll be just fine. Come, let's eat. That will make you feel better."

"I doubt it," Bilbo sighed, but he released Kíli anyway.

Together, they trailed down the hall, following the soft glow of light into a surprisingly vast dining room. Kíli's heart leapt at the sight of cream, honeycomb, bread, butter, cheese, herbs and ripe berries all but spilling off of the table.

"How did they make so much food in so little time?" he breathed, glancing between Bilbo and Gandalf with wide eyes. "Mister Bombadil was only a few minutes ahead of us, if that!"

Gandalf grinned at him from across the table, and winked. Bilbo and Kíli exchanged glances and shrugged, before sitting down between Fíli and Dís. It appeared that they had been holding up the meal, for the moment they sat down, Tom began to tuck in. Without hesitance, the others followed, and found the food was so good that for a long time there was no chatter at all.

Maybe these were the Blue Wizards that Gandalf spoke of, all those years ago on their quest, and they were replenishing their table by magic. They did call Gandalf 'Olórin', and Kíli supposed that was a fairly wizard-like thing to do. They did not seem to be dwarves, or elves, though Goldberry was easily as beautiful as any elf-maid that Kíli had ever seen.

When they had finished, and finally pushed away their plates with yawns and satisfied sighs, Tom Bombadil regaled them with a song of why he was in the forest at one o'clock in the morning.

 _"I had an errand in the woods: gathering water-lilies,_

 _green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,_

 _the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter,_

 _to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted._

 _Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,_

 _in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down the Withywindle;_

 _there they open first in spring and there they linger latest._

 _By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,_

 _fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes._

 _Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!_

 _And that proved well for you- for now I shall no longer_

 _go down deep again along the forest-water,_

 _not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing_

 _Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,_

 _not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter_

 _dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water."_

At some point during the song, Goldberry excused herself with a smile, but by the time Tom finished she had returned. Protesting adamantly against any help from their guests, the couple cleared away the empty plates. Then Goldberry stood at the end of the table and clasped her hands together.

"Our mattresses and your bedding rolls are laid out over three rooms, and we have blankets on every bed. You will have somewhere safe and sound to rest your heads for the night, and your worries can wait 'til the morrow."

Dís glanced at Bilbo, and then cleared her throat. "I fear that our pursuers-"

Tom Bombadil chuckled. "Old Tom will suffer no dark beings in his land. You're safe as safe can be while you're sleeping in this house."

"They will not find us here," Gandalf nodded at Dís, a tired smile on his face. She paused for a moment, glancing around the room, and then nodded.

"Thank you, from the very bottom of our hearts," she said, bowing at Tom and Goldberry. "Thank you."

Kíli followed suit with the bow, as did most of the others, but Tom chuckled off their gestures and guided them towards the bedrooms as though they were a herd of sleeping sheep. Kíli collapsed onto the bedroll that Goldberry gestured to, and was almost asleep when she spoke.

"Have peace now," she said gently, "until the morning. Heed no nightly noises. For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind of the hill-top. Good night."

* * *

 _It was hot. So, so hot._

 _Rocks were burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. There was ice-cold metal clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the fire itself. If he did not…_

 _The image of Nelly flashed across his mind, dragged away by an iron hook through her shoulder. He saw Pippin and Merry hauled away by the largest orcs he had ever seen – he saw a familiar, sandy-brown haired man fall to his knees, an arrow in his chest._

 _Frodo fell to his hands and knees, and he saw Gandalf falling down, down, down, into an abyss of fire and darkness. He saw his old friend, Estel of Rivendell wrestle a warg off of a cliff and crash into the waters below. He saw Gimli disappear beneath a crush of armour-clad orcs._

 _He curled his fingers into the hot dirt and dragged himself forward. He had to keep going. He saw Legolas of Mirkwood topple over the edge of a strange battlement. Had to keep going._

 _He saw Sam fall down a black staircase, and lie motionless on the rocks below. Frodo crawled over rock and dust towards the heat, towards the fiery door, and saw Thorin fall before the gates of Erebor. He knew that Erebor, that home, was miles and miles away but he could see it, he could see Dís screaming on her blood-soaked bed, her back arching and her legs splayed at awkward angles. Strange, masked dwarves were pinning her down, and one struck her harshly across the face._

 _Dragging himself to his feet, Frodo tried to run. The door was getting closer, but his running was more of a stagger and he was slowing down. But he was not staggering as much as Bróin when his image appeared in Frodo's mind. His 'cousin' was trying to flee, but the back of his leg was hanging open, and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. An axe wielding orc was bearing down upon him, but Bróin was limping too slowly to escape and closing his eyes could not stop Frodo from seeing the axe fall._

 _Sobbing, Frodo stumbled through the fiery door and collapsed onto a long, thin bridge. He saw Vinca fighting four orcs at once, fighting and losing._

 _His nails splintered against the rock._

 _Esme was lying on a dark stone floor, thin as the dead, reaching up with a shaking hand towards a man who raised his staff to strike._

 _Frodo wrenched himself back onto his feet._

 _Pearl was lashed to a tree, gagged, half-naked and crying as Paladin's lifeless body was tossed into a nearby ditch._

 _Frodo forced himself to the very end of the bridge._

 _Fíli was lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain Frodo did not know._

 _Frodo opened his palm._

 _Bodin was holding his oldest brother's sword with shaking hands, trying to cover the bleeding Bofin while tears ran down his face._

 _Frodo looked at the smooth, golden ring._

 _He saw himself as if from someone else's eyes, he saw Frodo Baggins on blood-stained ground, choked by long, white fingers until his whole body went still._

 _Frodo could see his face reflected in the metal of the ring, but it was not his face._

 _It was Bilbo's. He was in Bilbo's body. Bilbo had climbed the hot mountain, Bilbo was staring at the ring of power._

 _He saw an eye of fire._

Frodo's entire body jolted and he flew upright, panting. His head was spinning, his sweaty fingers clenched around the blankets, and his eyes darted wildly around while they adjusted to the dark of the room. There was a snore from his right and he jumped, his fingernails digging into his palms through the blankets.

Beside him, Sam snored again, and then rolled over. Frodo could just about see his friend's sandy hair, and his chest rising up and down. He looked around, and saw everyone else in the room still asleep, still breathing.

Moaning softly, Frodo rested his head on his shaking knees. His heart was racing, and he felt so cold, but worst was the feeling in his stomach –a tight, churning nausea that made the threat seem so much more palpable. The dream had not felt real, as such. His old nightmares had always felt real, but this was different, it felt like the dream was trying to tell him something.

No. Frodo shook his head. That could not be the case.

But if that was the future?

No. no, Frodo was not some sort of prophet, he was a hobbit. No, that could not be the future.

He would not let it be the future.

His breathing picked up and his heartrate sped up again, skipping several beats. He could feel it, terror, creeping up and closing his throat and –

 _"Have peace now until the morning. Heed no nightly noises."_ Goldberry's words chimed softly in his mind, and Frodo took a deep breath.

Have peace now until the morning.

Heed no nightly noises.

What had she said? " _For nothing passes door and window here save moonlight and starlight and the wind of the hill-top."_

He was safe, and more importantly his family was safe. He would worry about tomorrow in the morning.

Taking another deep breath, Frodo let his mind dwell on Goldberry's words, and he slowly drifted back into sleep.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, and there weren't any/too many typos. I do do my best. Please let me know what you thought, and any theories you might have. Uploading every day is not easy, even with chapters like this, where much is largely the same, so I love to know when y'all think I'm on the right track. Anyway, thank you for reading, and have a lovely day.**


	9. Chapter 9: Reservations and Recollection

**Thank you so much for your support of the last chapter! I hope you enjoy this one, but I'm rather tired tonight, so please do forgive any of my typos.**

 **Chapter Nine: Reservations and Recollections**

Nori woke before the sun rose. He did not move right away. Beside him, Ori was curled into a ball, snoring lightly. He still looked young when he slept. Like that timid little boy Nori joined the quest for. It did not matter that his two braids now held a full beard, nor that he was now almost as strong as Dori. He still had freckles, and a nose that seemed too big. He still sucked his tongue when he slept.

A loud, harsh snore drew Nori's gaze to the right, and he smirked. Gimli, on the other hand, could not be accused of looking like a child. Though he was decades younger than Ori, and but a year older than Fíli had been during the quest, Gimli looked older than Nori's brother, to the eyes of everyone save Dori and Glóin. Gimli had inherited his father's bushy beard, which he kept full, and large, dwarven features that did not seem too big for his face. Not to mention that Gimli's brows and lips were set in a manner that made him appear very solemn, even when he was not. 'Resting grump face,' that was what Bróin dubbed it.

Whether that was a fair assessment or not, Gimli had grown up quickly. Sometimes, when his nightmares dragged him back into Mirkwood, and reminded him what if felt like to hang, Nori would wake and wonder if that week had been what had triggered Glóin's son to grow so gruff so soon. But he would always shrug it off. Perhaps it just came from his bond with older cousins, and in any case, it did not matter. Gimli was happy, and healthy. Anything else was none of Nori's business.

With a sigh, Nori obeyed his bladder and rose, stepping carefully over Ori, Gimli and Bofur on his way to the door. When he had visited Bombadil's bathroom, he rolled his neck, hearing the bones click with a strong sense of satisfaction. Then, he looked up and down the hall. It was strange – were it anywhere else, he would say it felt bare, unfinished. There was naught there but off-white walls and a floor that was surely just compressed earth – but it felt complete. Whole.

He wandered down it slowly. He was not uneasy, as such. Gandalf thought they were safe here, and he hardly felt exposed, but Nori was not one to trust any man at once. Even if he was indebted to him. Or liked him – for he liked Tom, and his wife. And he was not lacking gratitude. But did he trust them? No.

He had grown used to hiding mistrust, however. Kíli and Bilbo got very upset if they thought you were 'stereotyping,' and did not seem to take Nori's easy judgement of _every_ soul he met as any sort of excuse. He would be terrible at his job if he trusted as easily as the Bagginses. Or most of the hobbits, for that matter. They were rather like dogs – you gave them food and a nice word, and they would eat out of the palm of your hand. Sam had a bit more sense, and Nori had managed to teach Nelly a thing or two about healthy scepticism over the years, but he did worry sometimes.

Pushing open the door to the room they had dined in the previous day, and found that he was not alone. But he was not surprised. Nelly was gazing out of the window, elbow propped on the table and chin resting on her hand.

Nori tutted. "Dori and Ellie would play tennis with the back of your skull if they saw you slouched like that in a stranger's house."

A soft grin tugged at her lip, but it did not chase the frown from her brow. He had not startled her – it was hard to startle a hobbit.

"Aye," she yawned. "That they would. But I don't really care what Dori or Aunt Ellie have to say right now."

Nori gave a huff of laughter, and glanced out of the window. It was still dark, and he could see nothing more than two nearby trees, their branches stretching towards the house like grasping fingers.

"So," he said slowly. "How's not fearing the wraiths going for you?"

Nelly shrugged her shoulders, her frown deepening. "I appreciate why Gandalf said it would be difficult, now."

"Very diplomatic," he commented.

"How did you feel about it?" she said, keeping her eyes on the window.

He stared at her for a moment, before shrugging and sitting down opposite. "Nearly soiled myself."

She snorted, and nodded slowly. "Aye… But it made me angry, too."

"Angry?"

Her eyes finally tore from the window to meet his. "Angry that my fear wasn't _mine –_ they bring that, that, atmosphere, presence, uh-"

"Aura?"

Nelly shot him a somewhat withering look from beneath her brow. "Whatever it was – they shoved it in our faces as if our hearts were theirs to rule, and I did not like it. Nor did I like seeing Pippin and Fíli smacked around like wrestling dummies, either. Still, it could be worse. No one died."

"No," Nori accepted. "No, that's true."

They sat in silence for a while. It was easy. She was as dear as Ori to him, and nowadays there was no one he was more comfortable around. As a tiny little child, Nelly had held out her hand in a friendship that had stunned him, and confused him at times. He had never quite known what she saw in him to make her want him as a friend. But he had watched her grow with a pride that he imagined felt like that of a parent, and had come to consider her his closest friend. One who knew his past, and would not forsake him for it.

"By Durin, this place doesn't half make you reflective," he muttered, and she raised a single brow.

"What?"

"Ah, it's nothing," he said, flashing a grin. "What do you say we sniff out our host? If I'm getting peckish, you must be near starvation."

She fluttered her hand to her forehead, but without her usual flair. Nori gave a small smile.

"Come on, lass. What's on your mind, other than your hand?"

Her lip twitched, and she rubbed her face with her hands. "Nothing. I just – I didn't know there are things out there that can use fear as, as a weapon. And then I went and had an awful nightmare last night, just to top things off."

"What about?"

"The Battle of the Shire," she said, meeting his eyes. "Happening again, but now. Flames everywhere. Our side beaten, hobbits in chains. All that lovely stuff."

"That does sound rather unpleasant," said Nori. "I slept like a babe."

A loud yawn and shuffling feet announced the arrival of Bragi and Soren, and immediately Nelly's shoulders relaxed, and an easy smile slipped over her face. She met Nori's eye, and he winked.

 _That's my girl._

* * *

It was the sunlight that woke Frodo in the morning. It streamed through a crack in the curtains and fell directly over his eyes, but when he blinked his eyes open it seemed his cousins were all still snoozing. They looked peaceful, and they certainly deserved the lie in, so Frodo stood and let them be.

He rubbed his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair. He felt well rested, but his dream weighed heavily on his mind. As he walked out of the room, he could hear chattering coming from the dining room, but he could also hear Bilbo's voice coming from the other direction. Curious, Kíli followed the sound into a little sitting room, where Tom Bombadil sat with Bilbo, Gimli and Dís.

"…goodness' sake, Gimli, stop interrogating the man. He's been nothing but hospitable and…"

"I do not mean to interrogate anyone," Gimli said indignantly, as Frodo entered the room. "But I want to know how you can be so sure your lands are safe. I've seen no guards, no walls or fences."

"Guards and walls and fences, no, we have no need for those. The land is safe, and I keep it so," the man's eyes were sparkling and he winked at Frodo, who could not help but grin back. "Good morning, young Frodo."

"Oh, good morning, love," Dís said, glancing over her shoulder with a smile, and making space on the couch beside her.

Gladly, he sat down, and she smiled, patting his knee.

 _Dís screaming on her blood-soaked bed, her back arching and her legs splayed at awkward angles._

Frodo tried to hide the shiver that ran down his spine as he forced himself back to the present. His aunt was fine, she was right there – and staring at him as if she knew something was wrong. She opened her mouth.

"So!" Tom clapped his hands together and smiled at Bilbo. "You've told me the tale of why you're here, now, show me that precious ring of yours."

The reaction was immediate – Frodo's jaw dropped slightly, Dís gasped and Bilbo's eyes widened, while Gimli's narrowed dangerously.

"We told you nothing of a ring." Gimli's voice was hard and sharp as his axe, and Kíli glanced quickly at Bombadil.

"Not in so many words. But you told me all the same. Let me see."

To Frodo's utter astonishment, Bilbo pulled the ring from his pocket. Frodo heard Dís gasp, and felt his own heart pick up speed as Bilbo placed the glinting gold on the palm of his hand.

The elder Baggins stared at the ring for a lingering moment, before passing it to Tom Bombadil. Frodo could barely breathe, let alone move as he watched the man hold the ring up high and stare at it. The ring glinted in the morning light, and then Tom put it to his eye, laughed, and looked through it, his piercing blue eye wreathed in gold. It was an oddly chilling sight.

"So," Tom balanced the ring on his little finger. "This is what has young Olórin all in a fuss…"

He slipped the onto his finger. For a moment, Frodo did not realise what was wrong, but then he gasped. Tom Bombadil was still, very much visible. The man laughed again, popped the ring back off, and then flung it into the air, where it twisted, and vanished.

Shock and an unusual rage in his eyes, Bilbo leapt to his feet, but Tom laughed for a third time and passed the ring across the table. Bilbo snatched it back and stared suspiciously at the golden band. Looking directly at Tom Bombadil, he slipped the ring on his finger and vanished.

"Hey, now, Bilbo, Old Tom's not blind as that yet," said Tom, his smile fading slightly. "Take off your ring, your hand is fairer without it. And Olórin, stop dithering in the doorway. Come in and sit down."

Gandalf walked out of the shadows of the doorway with a smile on his lips but an odd look in his eye. It looked almost like disappointment. "Good morning. The weather is foul today."

"Oh yes," Tom said. "I doubt the sun will show her face today. You all may stay, rest awhile, and let your worries fade."

"Thank you, that would be lovely." Gandalf said, bowing low. "I cannot fittingly repay you for your hospitality, Tom."

Tom stared at Gandalf as if he was an amusing but foolish child, and shook his head. Then, he sprang to his feet, and cried, "Breakfast!"

Though he had not expected it, Frodo thoroughly enjoyed the stay spent at Tom Bombadil's. They did absolutely nothing but laze around inside, listening to the wonderous tales of Tom and Goldberry, and sharing a few tales and songs of their own. Even Nori and Nelly failed to get bored, and only Gandalf seemed at all restless. The wizard kept looking from Bilbo to Tom, and then to the door beyond, but he never said anything to betray his thoughts. And to everyone else, Tom's merriment was infectious. So much so, that Frodo almost forgot his nightmare.

Until he closed his eyes.

 **There we are – a little bit of a filler for you. I hope you enjoyed it. Please do let me know if you did, and until then, take care!**


	10. Chapter 10: Light on the Barrow-Downs

**It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Ten days of Fanfic, and where I am today we've had snow! True, it did ruin my most exciting plans until Christmas, but on the plus side SNOWMEN! I hope that you guys enjoy this chapter, and forgive any typos (as usual!)**

 **Chapter Ten: Light on the Barrow-Downs**

Sam had to admit, he did not like the idea of leaving the house of Tom Bombadil. The day had dawned bright and sunny, and the time to depart was approaching. Sam busied himself making sure that all their bags were secured to the ponies and done up properly – it would not do for their lovely, fresh food supplies to get soggy at the first rainfall.

He was halfway through double checking the straps on Bofur's pony when Tom Bombadil hopped into the barn, humming as he went.

"Ah! Samwise, do you not trust your hosts? Tom told you that your things were packed, your wolves and ponies too," the man said, his eyes twinkling.

Sam tried not to wince in embarrassment. "Oh, no sir, no sir, you just can't be too careful. I like to be prepared, me."

"And you don't trust anyone else to do it well enough. It shows in your eyes. You don't trust easily, do you?" Tom commented, in the same tone one would use to acknowledge a cloudless sky. "But that's understandable, given the life you've had. How I was hoping to talk to the brave young Sam Gamgee one day, and ho! Here you are."

Sam's eyes widened, and for a moment he could not help but splutter in confusion. "I, well, uh, I - I'm begging your pardon sir, but what in the Shire are you talking about?"

Tom Bombadil laughed loudly. "No need to look so suspicious my lad. My friend been telling me stories about you since you were a little child."

"Me?" Sam felt utterly stupefied, but he could not help the suspicion that curls in his stomach, or the narrowing of his eyes. "Who's your friend – and why'd he tell you about me?"

An odd, almost sad look flickered over Tom's face for a moment, but his knowing smile remained. "I am older than these woods, friend Sam, and there shall come a day when I should feel that this year I am very young. Friends and loved ones come and go, and Tom and his Goldberry stay. It can be easy with the blurring of the years, to lose touch of what is coming and going outside. But Old Tom has his sources, and he's been sharing stories with Farmer Maggot for many a year."

"Farmer Maggot?" said Sam. "Not Farmer Maggot of Buckland?"

"The very same." Tom tipped his hat. "And two decades ago he came to me and said, 'Tom, I've got a good'un for you. A sad'un, but a good'un.' He told me the story of your family, and of how you chose to follow your heart and your friends to Erebor, and at such a young age. T'was a very brave thing you did, and it struck me as much as it did dear Maggot. Your father went to him, you see, to ask if he knew of a messenger to deliver a parcel to you. 'I sent him to the rangers,' Maggot said, 'I didn't think you'd be likely to fancy a trip to Erebor.' He was right of course. Tom's place is here, with his Goldberry, but he has been curious of the fate of Sam Gamgee for a long while. When you return Maggot brings me tales of it, and I'm glad to see you seem just as good a fellow as he believes you to be."

By now, Sam's cheeks were burning, and for a long time after Tom fell silent, he did not know what to say. For two decades this man, this magical, mysterious man had heard stories of Sam, _Sam,_ the least interesting and least noble member of the entire company, and thought him a 'good fellow.'

Glancing up at the sky, Tom clicked his tongue and cleared his throat. "The goodbye hour is drawing nearer, and the time is growing clearer. You'll soon leave Tom and Goldberry, to pass the deadly downs, for Bree. Stay brave, Samwise, and come again, should your tale lead back to Tom's domain."

With that, the man bowed and headed for the door. The ponies and wolves all trotted after him, leaving Sam quite alone in the barn. The young hobbit blinked, and tried to process what had just happened. He was still puzzling it over when he heard Frodo calling.

"Sam? Sam? Are you out here?" Frodo ducked his head around the barn door and grinned. "Come on Sam, we're all waiting for you!"

"What?" Sam blinked again. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, Frodo, I'm just coming."

Frodo frowned as Sam walked up to him. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…"

"I'm alright," Sam insisted, his own eyebrows knitting together as his forehead creased. "That Master Bombadil's an odd fellow, don't you think? We just had the strangest conversation…"

"Yes, I think so," Frodo said with a wry smile. "But I do think it is a good kind of odd. Like Gandalf in a way, but then nothing like him at all." Studying Sam's face, Frodo paused for a moment. "Is there anything that you want to talk about?"

Sam shook his head. "Nah, it's nothing important."

"Very well then," Frodo clamped his hand down on Sam's shoulder for a moment. "We'll leave when you're ready."

Sam rolled his eyes and pushed the barn door open once more. "Fiddlesticks. We'll leave now, I'm more than ready. "

"If you say so."

Shaking his head slowly, Sam followed Frodo out to the front of Tom and Goldberry's house. Their whole group had already assembled, and Bofur was holding the reins of Sam's pony, Bill.

"C'mon, you wee scoundrels, we want to leave before dark if we can," he joked, winking as he passed Sam the reins. "Though if you're stalling to try and stay another day I don't blame you."

It was just as sad as Sam had thought it would be to bid farewell to Tom and Goldberry. With a final warning about some sort of 'barrows' Tom waved his hand.

"Speed now, fair guests!" Goldberry said, her voice warming Sam's heart a little. "And hold to your purpose! North with the wind in the left eye and a blessing on your footsteps. Make haste while the Sun shines!"

True to the mysterious couple's words, the sun held out while Gandalf led them through the forest, but it was hardly visible at all through the odd, foggy lands that the wizard called the Barrow-downs. Sam did not like the downs, not one bit. Odd mounds, old tombs and sloping hills, and thick, clinging mists.

"Stay close together!" Gandalf ordered, throwing a rope along their column. When everyone had a hand on it, they meandered through the fog in single file, and in silence.

Several places behind Sam, Denahi sniffed at the air and paused. Merry nudged him gently with his heels, but Denahi did not move forward. Instead, he took padded to the left, away from the line, until he had almost tugged the rope from Merry's hands.

Furrowing his brows, Merry opened his mouth to command Denahi to stop, but before the words left his mouth, he heard a low, mournful chant – one that sounded as though it was coming from half a world away.

 _"Cold be hand and heart and bone_

 _And cold be sleep under stone."_

Gandalf barked out something that Merry could not quite here, and he was vaguely aware of wolves howling and ponies whickering, but he felt almost like there was snow in his ears. Everything was dulled, muffled, and all that had any clarity was the chant.

 _"Never more to wake on stony bed_

 _Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon_

 _Is dead."_

He could see nothing but the fog. Not even Denahi before him – but no. That was not entirely true. There were two round, yellow lights, suspended in the air. Merry's head tipped slowly to the side. He could feel Denahi growling beneath him, but he could not hear it. He could hear nothing but the dirge.

 _"In the black wind the stars shall die_

 _And still be gold here let them lie"_

A coldness swept through him as a figure took shape behind the lights, and he realised that the lights were eyes. Hollow, and cold. He stared into them, and then felt his fingers leave the rope.

Against his will.

One by one.

Fear seized him, and he called out, but he could barely hear his own voice. He could not hear the frantic replies to his cry, nor the howls of the wolves. All he could hear was the voice, the voice that he was sure came from the phantom before him.

 _"Till the Dark Lord lifts his hand over_

 _Dead sea and withered land."_

It felt as if a ghostly hand had plunged inside his own, and was manoeuvring his fingers without his consent. He released the buckles and catches on the saddle, and then began to dismount. The figure swooped forward, but then Denahi reared like an angry horse, and threw Merry to the ground. Landing with a painful thump, Merry watched in horror as his wolf lunged at the phantom, which let out a shriek, and then vanished like shadows into night-time.

A hand clasped around his throat, a hand that felt sculpted from ice, hard and cold and bony, and Merry tried frantically to reach for his sword, but his body would not move. He could not even prise his jaws apart to scream. He felt the hand drag him backwards, and the world grew greyer, and dimmer. So dim, so dark, that he knew he was moments away from losing consciousness.

And he knew that if he did, he would never regain it.

But there was nothing he could do.

Not a single muscle that he could move.

An enormous paw came down upon his chest, and then a tremendous weight, crushing the air from his lungs, and before he could gasp, the ground was crumbling beneath him and he was falling, and a voice was shouting and the hand loosening and –

He landed with a crash on what felt like solid stone, and cried out in pain. And then he cried again, for he could hear himself, and feel the rip of his voice from his throat, and he could hear Denahi whining. His eyes focused, and he saw that it was his wolf that had crushed him. His wolf that had knocked him out of the grasp of whatever phantom had seized him.

"Good boy," he whispered hoarsely, reaching awkwardly around to stroke Denahi's ears. "Good boy… Where are we? What _was_ that?"

Denahi just whined, clambering to his feet and leaping from whatever it was they had fallen onto. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Merry massaged his rump and looked around. He was in some sort of earthen chamber, with pots overflowing with gold and jewels, and dozens of swords, clothes and lanterns lying, abandoned, in a far corner.

There were other weapons and strange artefacts displayed more skilfully, hung from the walls or on stands, but it was the pile in the corner that drew Merry's attention, and Denahi's. But then Denahi whined, and backed away.

And Merry caught sight of the bones.

He gasped, shuffling backwards, and almost toppling off the dais he had landed on. Then, a horrible thought took hold of him, and he slowly glanced down. Merry groaned.

He was sitting on a stone coffin. In a chamber full of human – and possibly even hobbit – bones.

"Merry? _Merry?"_

He looked up at Kíli's voice, at the broken ceiling above him, and the fog that rolled above it.

"I'm here!" he called, and Denahi howled helpfully. "We're down here! Help!"

"We're coming!" Kíli's voice was tight and panicked, but every word gave hope to Merry. He moved his hand to the right to push himself up, but his fingertips grazed something that made him pause. A dagger – as long as a sword for him – with a leaf shaped blade and fiery gems around the hilt. He picked it up and peered at it cautiously. After all, hobbits picking up strange, glittering objects in strange, underground places was what had gotten him into this mess.

But there was something that drew him to the blade. It was just lying there, on the coffin, alone and unclaimed. He supposed that if he showed Gandalf, it could not do much harm to take it. Merry picked it up, and found that it was pleasantly light. His own sword, forged with Kíli's help in Erebor, was similar in style, but heavier and longer.

"Well, Fíli always says you can never have too many knives," he muttered to Denahi, who glanced at him, huffed, and then let out another howl, staring plaintively at the hole they had tumbled through.

"Merry!"

Kíli's face appeared over the edge of the hole, pale and strained, but Merry had almost never been happier to see him, and he scrambled to his feet.

"Kíli!"

"Are you alright, are you hurt?" the dwarf demanded, as others appeared there too, blocking off what little light Merry had.

"I'm not hurt," Merry insisted. "Perhaps a couple of bruises to rival Pippin's, but I'm alright, Denahi too, I think. Just get me out of here."

Leaning half of his body over the edge, Kíli reached down with both arms, grabbing Merry beneath the shoulders as if he was still a child. Then, with a grunt, Kíli straightened up, and Merry's feet left the stone. Several rough hands grabbed at the back of Merry's shirt, and then he was thrown onto the damp grass.

Getting Denahi up proved a little more difficult, as the wolf was hard to coax up onto the coffin. Once they had, however, Ori and Ehren had been able to lean down, and between them tug the yelping wolf out of the barrow.

"Well, Master Merry," said Gandalf, looking even wearier than he had before, "it does not look like any lasting harm has been done. What is that in your hand?"

Merry handed over the blade obediently, and Gandalf's eyebrows raised.

"Indeed? This is a Dagger of Westernesse, a blade forged in Arthedain in the early ages. Many such blades are enchanted – no, not in any evil manner, Meriadoc. This is a blade worth keeping a hold of, my dear hobbit," he said, gazing at Merry with interest. "But if you could refrain from falling into any more barrows, our progress will thank you."

"Sorry," Merry said, stroking Denahi behind the ears. "I couldn't help it."

"I do not doubt it," replied the wizard. "The Barrow-wights power can break all but the very strongest of wills. You did well to hold out for as long as you did. But, thanks to your canine companion, and to myself, you are safe, and I do not believe we have lost anybody else. Bilbo?"

"No, no, we're all here," said Bilbo tightly.

"Then let us get out of this place, and thank Denahi for preventing his master from being lost entirely. Without him, I doubt I would have had the time to banish the Wight before it vanished with you forever."

A chill ran down Merry's spine, but then Kíli's arm wrapped over his shoulders and chased it away.

"Lovely thought, Gandalf," said the dwarf, squeezing Merry tightly for a moment. They shared a smile, and Kíli ruffled Merry's hair. Then, they mounted their wolves, took a hold of the rope once more, and followed Gandalf through the foggy downs.

Though Merry was now painfully alert, hours passed without word or incident, until at last they reached the woods on the other side, as the sun dipped below the horizon.

"Not far, now," the wizard's weary voice rang over them all. "Not far. If we press on, if we put on just a little speed we will reach the Prancing Pony before Barliman closes his doors."

Merry sighed heavily, his eyes aching, and urged Denahi to go faster. It felt cruel to do so, when the wolf had just saved his life, but Denahi did not complain. He simply sped up, and panted more heavily. However, the benefit of riding as Merry did was that it was very easy to hug one's wolf while you rode, and he took full advantage of this now.

"Good boy," he murmured.

It was sooner than Merry anticipated, however, that they saw the lights of a nearing village. _Bree,_ he thought, relief easing his travel-weary muscles a little. They rode with renewed vigour to the gate, and made it to the Prancing Pony two whole hours before the bar was to close, which was better than he could have hoped for.

When they gathered around several tables, Merry found himself sandwiched between Kíli and Pippin. The dwarf raised his eyebrows and studied him.

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Of course." Merry grinned. "It's alright. You don't have to tell my mother you let me get hurt just days out of the Shire."

Kíli smiled back, but it was weary, and he fiddled a lot with something that hung around his neck. When Merry looked closer, his eyes widened.

He had no idea that Kíli still wore the medallion Merry had 'carved' when he was but nine years old, and terrified of losing his dwarf forever (or twenty-one years) on the Quest for Erebor. Even then, no one could make him feel quite as safe as Kíli could. He had grown up believing that he had the best Guardian of any child in the Shire, and he still believed so.

He glanced down at the table, waited until Pippin was arguing with his sister, and then spoke, keeping his voice as light as possible. "Kíli… If Denahi hadn't been there-" Beneath the table, Denahi whined, and shifted his head on Merry's lap, bumping it beneath the table. Merry smiled slightly, rubbing the wolf's ears. "Do you think you could've found me?"

"I don't know," Kíli said, in an equally easy tone. But his eyes met Merry's, and were so full of conviction that Merry felt almost winded. "But I know I would not have stopped until I did, be that when I was beyond dead and a Wight myself."

"That would be a terrible waste of a life," commented Merry.

"Aye," said Kíli seriously. "But that doesn't change a thing."

Merry smiled, and sighed, finally feeling at least a little safe again.

At one of the other tables, Sam waited for the ale to flow and studied their surroundings. He had been to the Prancing Pony many a time, and it seemed just as cosy and quaint tonight, save one detail. In the corner, there was a hooded stranger staring at their group. He had been staring since they entered, and Sam could see the shadow of a sword by his side.

Glaring at the stranger, Sam ran his fingers over his own knife. Its sheath on his belt felt natural to him now – Bofur had insisted on him having a knife on his person at all times, ever since he was twenty years old.

 _"Just in case, Sammy-boy. Whenever you leave the house, you take this with you. With any luck you'll never have to use it, but it's always best to be prepared."_

"Alright, Sam my lad?" Bofur said cheerfully, plonking himself down in the seat opposite Sam. "That wasn't our easiest journey, was it?"

"I wouldn't say so," Sam said darkly, peering around his guardian to the stranger. The hooded man still stared at them, the smoke from his pipe the only sign of movement. "Here, what d'you think of that man over there? He's done nothing but stare at us since we walked in."

Frowning, Bofur looked over his shoulder. "I see… Doesn't look awfully friendly, does he?"

Sam narrowed his eyes as the man stood up, walking towards them with slow, purposeful steps. Standing up, Sam prowled around Bofur – to the dwarf's spluttered protest – and strode right up to the man, his hand on the hilt of his knife. His other hand he thrust towards the man's face.

"Listen," he snarled, "I don't know who you think you are or what you're doing –"

"I am here," the man growled back, "for your company." Then he removed his hood, grinned at Sam, and spoke in a much more pleasant tone. "As for who I am, well. It has not been that long, I should hope, Sam?"

"Estel!" Sam cried, immediately dropping his knife to wring the man's hand. "Why, it has been a long time, it has! What luck you're here as we are!"

"Less luck," Gandalf said, striding over and putting his hand on Estel's shoulder as cheerful cries of greeting rose from the company. "And more loyalty. Thank you for coming, Aragorn."

"So," Gimli raised his eyebrows with a grin that stretched from ear to ear. "This is the friend you would have protect us. Not bad, Master Gandalf. How are you, laddie?"

"Well, but I shall be better when we find better shelter. The enemy is not far behind you, I fear."

It was then that Sam noted something odd about his old friend – it had been a decade, almost, since Estel last visited Erebor, and in that time his eyes had grown dark. Grimmer. Like the other rangers that Sam had met. He had never thought 'Aragorn' suited the man, but now it seemed that Estel had grown into his true name.

"Where would you have us go?" Bofur raised his eyebrows. "I happen to like The Pony, and I know of no safer place in Bree."

"Unfortunately, it is known you like The Pony," said Aragorn. "And the good-will of Barliman Butterbur will not protect you from the nine. They will find you here." He turned to Gandalf, looking even grimmer than before. "I fear they are close. There is a house down the street that is unoccupied, I have loaned it for the evening. We will be safer there, I trust."

"Indeed," Gandalf nodded. "I think that would be the wiser choice. We shall eat here, then make for this house."

Sam paused for a moment, and then, rather hesitantly, piped up, "But won't they just keep looking, if they don't find us here?"

dark look passed between Aragorn and Gandalf, and Sam swallowed.

"The matter is complicated by our number," the wizard sighed. "Were there less of us we could set up decoys, but we are more than twenty, without taking into account wolves and ponies. We must hope that the riders are still intent on secrecy."

"Lovely," muttered Bofur.

The mood lifted significantly when food and drink was soon brought to their table, and Sam tore into his dinner with gusto. He imagined that it would be a while, yet, before he would have so good a meal as this. By the end of it, however, he was nodding over his tankard.

"Am I going to have to carry you to bed, Sammy-boy?" Bofur asked, throwing his arm over the hobbit's shoulders. "Like when you were smaller than Bodin?"

"I'm awake," Sam protested with a grin. He nodded across the table at Bofin, who was snoring with his head against the wall. "You worry about him. I'm alright."

"Ah, lad, it's my job to worry about you." Bofur bumped his shoulder into Sam. "No matter how grown up you think you are."

Sam grinned down at his tankard. He loved his Old Gaffer more than words could say – or at least more than his words could. Bilbo or Kíli or Frodo could probably come up with some fancy poetry that would work. But just as much as he loved his papa, Sam loved Bofur. The dwarf was a second father to him, and had been since the dwarf claimed the lonely hobbit as his ward. More than any of the others, Bofur and his family understood how it felt to live your life as a pauper and then to suddenly be thrust into nobility. Bofur had cared for Sam as if he was his son, and even now with Bombur's five eldest children under his care, Bofur always made time to see that Sam was alright.

"Still," Sam said after a pause. "I'm all but an adult now. Only one more year and-"

"Aye, lad," Bofur interrupted. "But the same can be said for Kíli, and that goes to show that your age in years is as useful as hair curlers are to a hobbit. You're younger than the twins when it comes to years. I'll always think of you as that wee lad in a little one-piece pyjama set, making flowers out of the cuttings of emeralds."

Rolling his eyes, Sam drained the last of his drink. "I think-" he yawned. "I could do with going to bed."

"Aye," yawned Bofur. "I quite agree. I quite agree…"

 **And so do I, for that matter! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know if you did. I enjoyed writing it. Until I next see you, take care :D**


	11. Chapter 11: Ere Break of Day

**Here's the next chapter, I hope you enjoy it! Please do forgive any typos, as usual.**

 **Chapter Eleven: Ere Break of Day**

Frodo woke alone on the musty wooden floor of a rented room. For a moment, he did not register where he was or what was going on. But then, he heard the slop clop of horse hooves outside, and he gasped, flying upright and reaching out to the side, where Fíli had been when he fell asleep.

Fíli was gone.

He was alone.

They were leaving without saying goodbye.

 _"You are not coming, and that is final. I mean it, Frodo." Bilbo's voice was low and dangerous, a tone the young hobbit had rarely heard before._

 _"I will not be the only Baggins left behind," he protested, trying to keep his voice even. "I can ride hard and fast as you can, I'm sharp with a sword, I can hold my own-"_

 _"But you should not have to." Bilbo took Frodo's shoulders in his hands, and shook him gently. "You_ will _not have to. You will go with Aragorn."_

 _"Uncle, please," Frodo put his hand on Bilbo's forearm. He had to make him understand, had to make him see… "You and Auntie Dís, Fíli and Kíli, you are my family, my immediate family and if you go. If you go and something happens to you I cannot be the final Baggins. I cannot be the only one left."_

 _"Oh, Frodo…" Bilbo's frown carved deeper into his forehead, drawing attention to the dark smudges beneath his eyes. "We will be fine, and you will never be alone. This house is filled with your family-"_

 _"And I love every one of them deeply," Frodo agreed, tightening his grip on his uncle's arms. "But it is not the same. You know it is not. The same way that I will never be quite as dear to Merry as Pippin is, or the way that Bofin and the others will never love Bofur the same way they love their father. The love we share is deeper than the roots of the mountains, but it's not the same as this. You were the one who taught me that there are many kinds of love, and you were the one that taught me to do what my heart and head agree upon."_

 _"Frodo." Bilbo pursed his lips and shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. He moved his hands from Frodo's shoulders to his face. "You do not understand. I cannot lose you, my boy. I knew, when I took you from Brandy Hall, I knew that I would be taking you into danger. More danger than you would be in if you stayed in the Shire, no, listen. I lessened my guilt by saying it was your choice, but you were far too young to make such a choice- no, Frodo listen to me!" Frodo stopped trying to interrupt. "I will not take you into this danger. I will not, I cannot. You are as a son to me, Frodo, and I am so proud of you, but I cannot take you into further peril."_

 _Silence fell between them, and Frodo squeezed Bilbo's wrists. "I am of age now, Uncle. It is my choice to make."_

 _Bilbo shook his head, a tear trailing down his cheek. "No, Frodo. Not this time. I will see you, my dear, dear boy, in Rivendell. And that is the end of it."_

It had not been the end of it. Frodo had argued and pleaded with Fíli, Kíli, Dís and even Gandalf, but all had refused him.

And left before he could say goodbye.

Scrambling to his feet, Frodo burst out of the door, barely hearing it slam against the wall. Heart in his throat, he ran down the hall, down the stairs, tripping over steps made for bigger folk and bursting out of the front door into the street –

He saw them, at the end of the road. Bilbo. Dís. Fíli. Kíli. Gandalf. Already riding fast. Frodo gave a quiet cry, darting after them. A firm hand clamped down on his shoulder and he twisted, ready to fight, but it was only Aragorn.

"You cannot follow them, Frodo. Not like this."

Frodo wrenched himself free and ran a few steps down the road. Kíli glanced over his shoulder and met his eyes, and for a moment, Frodo could not breathe. Then Kíli turned away, and bowed his head, and urged Luno to go faster. Frodo's chest heaved, and he moved as if to run after them, before shuddering to a halt. Aragorn was right. He could not follow like this.

The last he saw of them was Fíli's hair, glinting in the light from the inn. Then they rounded the corner, and were gone.

He hung his head.

After a pause, Aragorn stepped forward hesitantly.

"They did not say goodbye," Frodo said quietly, before the man could talk. He swallowed, unable to call back his tears, and met Aragorn's eyes. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

Aragorn looked out over the road, and placed his hand back on Frodo's shoulder. "I am sorry that you were unable to. But we will see them again. It is safer this way."

"I know that," said Frodo, perhaps more sharply than he needed to. "I understand that a larger group is harder to hide, easier to hinder. But I – never mind."

Aragorn did not reply. Instead, he just stared at the end of the road, and squeezed Frodo's shoulder. "I am going to wake the others. Do not linger here long – you never know who may be watching." With that, the man ducked inside, leaving Frodo utterly alone on the street.

The wind whispered around him, blowing leaves into his ankles and sending down the very first drops of a light rain. Only the inn showed any sign of life. Its sign swayed softly, and shadows bustled across the glowing window. Frodo presumed it was the kitchen, but he did not really care.

He felt dazed. Dazed and hollow – a shocked shell with nothing inside.

They were all gone. Like – no. Not like his parents. They could not go like his parents.

He shivered, his hand rising to clutch the silver disc that hung from his neck. He wished that Thorin was here. Thorin would have been able to talk some sense into them, Thorin would have…

But no. Thorin would have been another voice demanding Frodo stay with Aragorn. And having the king so vulnerable, with such evil around – it would be a disaster. All the same, a tiny part of Frodo wished fiercely that Uncle Thorin was here anyway. Maybe then he would not feel so alone.

He squeezed his eyes closed as tightly as he could, shaking his head slightly to try and stop the tears. He could not stand here weeping, like the heroine in a poorly written love story. It would help no one, and least of all himself. It did not matter how he felt. Frodo had to keep a brave face.

He was the only Baggins left.

* * *

 _Alone in a strange land, a young man writhed out from beneath the corpse of his horse, and ran. The darkness was bearing down upon him, rolling closer and closer in a mass of black mist and fire. The man looked frantically over his shoulder, terror in his grey eyes, and an arrow flew from the heart of the dark cloud._

 _Pierced the man's cheek. He screamed in pain, his voice louder than the very clap of doom. It shot through his soul, ripped open his heart with the sound alone._

 _The man stumbled forwards and kept running, but now more and more arrows were flying from the mist, and he could not dodge them all. One, two, three arrows embedded into his back, and Faramir fell._

Hand on his sword, Boromir, son of Denethor, woke up. A dream. It was just another dream. He let out a slow breath, watching it cloud in the cold air. His fire was going out, but he could see the horizon lightening slightly. Morning was near.

He sat up, and ran a hand over his hair. Faramir was not dead. He was not hurt. He was in Gondor – home, safe. Even so, the nightmares plagued Boromir. When he took the trip to Rivendell upon himself, when _he_ left instead, Boromir had hoped that he would stop dreaming about his little brother dying.

It still made his head spin, to think that dreams were what had driven him so far from home. When he had woken with the remnants of a verse in his head, he thought that he had simply had too much to drink the night before, but at breakfast Faramir had recited the exact same words to him.

 _"Seek for the Sword that was broken:  
In Imladris it dwells;  
There shall be counsels taken  
Stronger than Morgul-spells.  
There shall be shown a token  
That Doom is near at hand,  
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,  
And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

It was not the first time, either, that Faramir had spoken of Imladris, and Denethor said that he was ready to let the younger go.

That very night, Boromir had dreamt of his baby brother's death for the first time, and even before he woke he knew that he would never let Faramir take that trip. Not while he had breath left. It was harder to convince their father to let Boromir leave – a fact that churned his stomach. He hoped that Denethor was being fair to Faramir. That, in Boromir's absence, he would see how skilled his younger son truly was.

Shaking his head, Boromir rose, and began to pack up his camp. The time for contemplation was over. It was time for what he did best – it was time to act.

Rivendell was his destination, and it was not that far away.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I know – it's an itty-bitty-tiny-baby-filler-chapter, but the other part felt unfinished, and rushed, and that's the last thing I want to do with this rewrite. So, in order to stick to my advent calendar, you've got a short, sharp one here. Please let me know what you think, and if these daily updates are working for you :D Until next time, take care :)**


	12. Chapter 12: Weathertop

**Thank you to my lovely reviewer! Here's the next chapter for you guys – we've done twelve days so far! I'm exhausted, but so far think it's worth it! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and that you forgive any typos that I have made today.**

 **Chapter Twelve: Weathertop**

The first few days of riding passed in a blur of grey boredom. Gandalf was pushing his horse to as fast a pace as it could sustain, and though the wolves easily matched the pace, it was not a good speed for chatter. More often than not, their paths forced them to ride single file, for Gandalf was leading them through trails far from the main road. As direct a path as he could forge, that was what he was planning. It made sense, of course, and Kíli was happy to put as much distance as he could between his kin and the black riders.

But the wraiths did not haunt his mind constantly, and when the fear left him, the boredom swept in to take its place. Hours on wolf back, with no conversation, book, or song to speed the way was not Kíli's idea of a good time. He quickly grew weary of his own thoughts, and of repeating the same stories and songs over and over in his mind.

Even the wolves seemed bored. Luno and Koda, who was bearing Bilbo, kept their noses on pointed ahead, but their nephews, Sokka and Sitka, kept looking into the woodland, and every so often, Fíli and Dís had to nudge them back on course. That provided a little entertainment.

But the entertainment lasted only moments. And of course, being left to his own mind also meant that there was nothing to stop Kíli remembering the look on Frodo's face as they rode away. He had never seen his brother so stricken, never seen betrayal etch so deep onto his young face. At least, he had never seen it directed at _him_ before. It had felt like a punch in the chest, and the ache still grew when he thought of it.

He had wanted to wake Frodo, to say farewell. It was not fair to leave him without a word – if Kíli had been forced to stay behind, he would at least want to say goodbye. Fíli had backed his argument, but, for once, they did not win over their parents. Dís and Bilbo seemed to think it would be easier for everyone involved, to save the parting, and the fighting.

"Especially when he will see him so soon," Dís had said.

Kíli disagreed so strongly with this that he had been tempted to 'fall over' Frodo on his way to the door. But when Gandalf said to let Frodo sleep, Kíli had listened. Begrudgingly, guiltily, he had obeyed. And seen Frodo stare at him as if he had torn the world apart.

Kíli sighed heavily. He hoped that Frodo would understand. He was a smart lad – he would understand why they had done it. Or at least that Fíli and Kíli had no choice in the matter.

Disquiet began to infect Kíli's boredom as they left the shelter of the woods, and entered the sparse land of the Weather Hills. He would feel better if the hills were steeper, or offered more cover, but for the most part, they were rather flat. Towards the north, they grew a little taller, but they were not travelling that way. They were heading for Weathertop – the only hill that deserved the title, according to Bofur.

"The rest of them are just little mole hills," he would say on the rare occasions they passed the landmark, sparking a debate between the ex-inhabitants of the hilly Shire, and the dwarves of the high mountains over what, exactly, constituted a hill.

But there was no Bofur today, as the ruined fortress came into view. No Bofur, no debate, no laughter.

No words.

It was a strategic spot to camp. A watch tower, once upon a time. Dusk was closing around them fast, and they had no safer place to make camp. From the hill, they could see for miles around, and hide behind the crumbling walls. But the closer they drew to Weathertop, the more Kíli wanted to turn around.

Almost without thinking, he drew his hand back through Luno's fur. Immediately, the wolf slowed, trying to turn his head to look at Kíli.

"What is it?" Fíli asked tightly, drawing up alongside him. "Do you see something?"

Kíli shook his head, and forced a smile. He was sure that it was more of a wince. "Nothing. I see nothing. But you know how it is. You start to think of camp…"

Understanding dawned in Fíli's eyes and he sighed, nodding slowly. "Aye." Neither needed to finish Kíli's sentence. Then, Fíli smiled softly. "Don't be scared, nadadith. I've got your back."

Despite himself, Kíli smiled back. "I know. The same goes for you, nadad."

Fíli nodded, and reached over to pat Kíli's arm. "I know. Now, come. We're getting left behind. They will worry."

Kíli glanced ahead. Already, his parents and Gandalf were nearing the archway into the old fortress. He gave a nod, and dug in his heels, but Luno was already speeding up. Sokka gave an excited little howl, and Kíli heard Fíli curse as the younger wolf burst into a run. Kíli laughed, though he also took a moment to thank the Valar that their wolves were able to understand what 'quiet' meant. Sokka had been no louder than a dreaming puppy.

With a slight growl, Luno put on speed, refusing to let Sokka overtake, but Fíli's wolf was the among the fastest they had, and they quickly drew neck and neck.

Fíli and Kíli exchanged grins, and leant down almost in unison, each gently urging their wolf on. The archway drew closer, too narrow for two to ride abrest, but neither wolf would give.

Finally, only a metre away, Fíli cursed again and drew his hands back, but Sokka leapt through the air towards the archway. Kíli and Luno lurched out of the way, avoiding a crash at the last second, as Sokka skidded through the arch and wagged his tale. His nose was up in the air, in a clear 'look how good I've been' posture that looked hilarious beneath Fíli's disgruntled frown.

"You slow down when I tell you to," he chided, but Kíli doubted the reprimand's effectiveness while Fíli was still ruffling the wolf's ears. "You'll get us hurt, you silly pup."

Sokka licked his own nose, and Fíli sighed.

Chuckling, Kíli entered the watchtower. But his joy was short-lived. The ruins drained it from him, drop by drop, as he followed Gandalf to a little alcove by the top of the tower.

"This is one of the only rooms that is fully intact," the wizard said, sighing heavily as he sat down. "I think we may risk a fire here, if we ensure it does not smoke."

"Wonderful," breathed Dís, easing herself onto the ground. Kíli noted that she looked as though she would fall asleep on the spot – there were dark rings beneath her eyes, and she rested her head in his hands. Bilbo looked little better, though he had enough sense left to begin building the fire.

"We'll take the first watch," said Fíli gently. "Come on, Kíli. Let's sit outside, where we can see."

Kíli nodded, following Fíli out onto the balcony by the alcove. They sat atop a broken chunk of wall, hidden enough by their dark clothes against the rocks, though Fíli covered his hair with his cloak. Luno padded out after them, though the other wolves stayed inside, waiting for their turn to be fed.

For his part, Fíli felt no better than his brother. He was ravenously hungry, having had his breakfast and half his lunch pilfered by his thieving wolf. One of these days, Fíli was sure that he would learn his lesson and blindfold Sokka while he ate, to spare himself from throwing his food at those large, sorrowful eyes.

Moreover, he missed his family, and he worried about them. Four days on the road, and they had seen not a trace of the riders. Did that mean they were following the others? That they had found them? Without Gandalf, how much change would Aragorn have protecting the group?

"I do not like this place," Kíli muttered mutinously, pulling Fíli from his thoughts. "It feels dark. Haunted."

"Well, it's not the Prancing Pony, that's for sure," Fíli sighed, looking out of the horizon. Darkness was descending rapidly, and he did not doubt that it would be a dark night indeed.

Kíli paused. "I keep seeing Frodo's face… The way he looked at us."

Fíli winced. "He'll be alright, Kíli. He's a strong lad, stronger than Amad gives him credit for, I think. They baby him."

"I think he should have come with us."

"Now that we disagree on," said Fíli sharply, staring at Kíli. "You want another soul to be at the risk we are?"

"No," Kíli replied, his frown deepening stubbornly. "But Fee, he's of age, and he is a part of this family. He should have had the right to choose. And we shouldn't have left like that."

Fíli sighed. "I know that. I did not want to either. You're arguing with yourself, Kíli."

"But what if something happens? What if something happens to, what if something happens to any of you, and-"

"Calm down," Fíli said firmly. "Kíli, it's alright. Nothing will happen to me. Or Bilbo, or Amad, or Gandalf, and certainly not to you. We're going to be fine."

It was Kíli's turn to sigh. "I hope so. It feels like there are ghosts here," he murmured, his dark eyes drifting over the ruins around them. "It _was_ the watchtower of Amon Sûl. I bet it has loads of ghosts."

"Why d'you think that?"

Kíli shrugged. "There was a battle, wasn't there? A Witch-King, I think it was, launched an attack on the Dúnedain who tried to defend it. They could not. It has been in ruins ever since. Bilbo told us on the way past three years ago. You must remember?"

But Fíli's mind was not on a past holiday to the Shire. A shiver had run down his spine, and he scanned the ground beneath them as best he could in the gathering gloom. "Did Gandalf not say that the leader of the Ringwraiths was known as a Witch-King?"

A light dawned in Kíli's eyes, and he looked to his brother fearfully. "Yes," he whispered, "yes, I think that he did. I don't like the foreshadowing of that."

Fíli put his hand on Kíli's arm. "It is long in the past, is it not? Life is not a story, Kíli, do not give yourself the worry of 'foreshadowing.' It is an old world, and there are bound to be histories wherever you tread."

Kíli pulled a face. "But it does mean that he knows how to attack this fortress. Perhaps it would've been better to keep going…"

"No," Fíli said firmly. The Valar knew they needed their sleep. "The wolves could not go much further, nor could Gandalf's horse. We are pushing them close to their limits, I fear. It would not do to push our luck further."

"I suppose you're right." Kíli pursed his lips, and looked away.

An easterly wind ruffled their hair, and Fíli glanced over to the hidden side alcove. He wondered if Bilbo was cooking, or if he had fallen asleep before he could strike a match. As minutes slowly ticked by, he thought that the latter was more likely. He dug in his pocket for some jerky and a loaf of cram, and split them both with his brother, while Kíli threw the wolves several strips of preserved meat each. It was not much, but they did not need much. Like hobbits and dwarves, the wolves could go without when they had to. With any luck, they would get a chance to hunt over the next few days.

By the time their meagre dinner was gone, the darkness was almost complete. Fíli gazed up at the sky, but the stars were shrouded with cloud. The veiled moon let out only enough light for Fíli to make out his surroundings. An hour passed, and he could hear no sounds, save Bilbo's soft snoring, his mother's heavy breathing and Kíli fidgeting beside him. Occasionally, one of the wolves would let out a whine in their sleep, and Luno, whose head was cradled in Kíli's lap, would made a funny little howling noise now and again. Now, though, it was almost silent.

"I am afraid," said Kíli suddenly, and Fíli turned to look at him. His heart sank at the tears glistening in his brother's eyes. "I am afraid, nadad. If _Gandalf_ is afraid…"

"I am scared too," Fíli admitted. "But, we are making great progress, and we _must_ hold onto hope. We have yet far to go, and a journey is always easier with a light heart."

Kíli snorted, and rolled his eyes. "Since when have you been the poet, Fíli?"

"Well, I was much more poetic than you before you went and got yourself raised by the most poetic hobbit to have ever lived," said Fíli, grinning as he coaxed Kíli back out of despair. "You hated reading and poetry before then."

"I had such bad taste," Kíli pretended to wince, and Fíli laughed softly.

"You know," he murmured, "this takes me back. Just the two of us on watch, while the rest of the world is asleep…"

"The start of the quest…" Kíli remembered with a smile of his own, "before we knew each other again. Though it didn't take long, did it?"

"Of course not." Fíli wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulder, holding him tightly. "It couldn't've. Not with you and I."

"Aw, Fíli the sentimental," Kíli teased, as he shuffled to better rest his head against Fíli's. "You're right, though."

"I'm always right."

"How about the time-"

Fíli rolled his eyes. "Almost always."

Kíli smirked. "Alright then."

They sat in silence for a while, until Fíli's thoughts pressed so heavily on his mind that he had to divulge them. "I forget, sometimes, how it felt. To find you again, but for me to mean so little to you. How it felt for my brother to be a stranger. I forget those early days, when things were awkward and uncomfortable, when we did not know where we stood."

"Me too," Kíli said quietly. "I look back, and it feels like I always knew you, even when I had no memory. I know that was not the case, but it feels impossible that I could have ever looked at you as a stranger. But that's what you were. You were a stranger, who was much like me. The family resemblance is uncanny."

Fíli let out a huff of laughter and held his brother a little closer. "You know, I wouldn't change it. All that pain, those years of grieving... I would not change it now. The family just would not be complete without Bilbo and the others."

"I wonder if we would've met him anyway," Kíli mused, his eyebrows furrowed. "Gandalf chose him as the burglar before knowing I was with him, perhaps we would have met him in any case. I wonder what would've happened…"

"That is an interesting thought," Fíli admitted. "But I wouldn't risk any of what we have now."

"Oh, me neither," Kíli shook his head vehemently, but then paused. "Except, perhaps, this part here, where we are chased by monsters and afraid for our lives. This part I would not miss at all."

Fíli laughed softly again. "No, nor would I."

"I love you, Fee."

He smiled. "I love you too, Kíli."

A comfortable silence fell between them, and Fíli absently rubbed circles into his brother's shoulder. The old wounds had healed now, and looking at the scars could now be done without sending him into a relapse of panic or sorrow. It had taken years to get to this point – after returning to Erebor, Fíli had tried to discuss about the years without Kíli with his mother, and had been plagued by nightmares for three weeks straight. Dís, of course, had sent him straight to the Mind Healers, and after a few years of what Kíli dubbed 'mind mending' Fíli was in a much more stable place.

Especially since Kíli had not left his side for more than half a day in the last two decades. That helped considerably.

A stronger breeze sent a shiver down Fíli's spine, and he frowned. Something felt off. Beside him, Kíli yawned, and Fíli narrowed his eyes, scouring the land beneath them. There was scarce enough moonlight to make out the mist clinging to the ground at the bottom of the hill, but it was enough to see five tall, cloaked figures floating through the darkness.

A cold fist seemed to clench around Fíli's heart, and the arm that was around Kíli's shoulder's tightened. "Get up!" he hissed.

"What?" Kíli frowned, and peered down. Then his face drained of all colour, and his hand flew to his belt. Fíli put a finger on his lips, and Kíli nodded, swallowing hard. They stood up noiselessly, and Luno bristled. Then, upon seeing the creatures below, the wolf let out a small whine and backed away to the wall, his ears pressed against his head.

"Go, go!" Fíli all but pushed Kíli into the guard room.

"Wake up!" his brother whispered frantically, shaking Bilbo's arm, and then Dís'. "Wake up, they've found us, we have to go! Gandalf-"

The wizard struggled to his feet, his face pale, and nodded. "All of you, up to the top of the tower."

"But-" Kíli glanced at Fíli. "Gandalf, we have to go, we have to run!"

"There is no running now," Gandalf shook his head, leaning heavily on his staff. "They will run us down; our steeds are too weary. We must defend ourselves. Now, all of you, up to the top of the tower."

Dís nodded and led the way. The wolves followed them all up, but for the first time in Fíli's memory, they looked half ready to bolt. Their ears were pressed flat against their heads, and their tales were between their legs and the whites of their eyes were visible in the darkness. Gandalf's horse remained behind, tethered in the side-room, its hooves tapping loudly on the stone floor as it let out shrieks of terror.

When they reached the top of the tower, Fíli's heart sank. They could see all around, but they could not defend themselves from all angles, not like this. The wolves kept close, and Sokka bumped against Fíli's leg.

"We are more exposed here," Dís insisted as Gandalf raised his staff. "This is not a strategic-"

But Dís' words died on her lips, and Fíli's heart beat faster than any wolf could run. Five wraiths, one in every direction, were approaching. Leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world.

"Get back!" Gandalf roared, banging his staff down on the stone and sending out a white light that burst in every direction. "Go back to the shadows from whence you came!"

With a shriek that seemed to pierce Fíli's heart, the creatures attacked all at once, each one of them charging at Bilbo. Roaring in anger, Kíli swung his sword at the wraith nearest to him, and the clang of metal on metal rang through the air. Dís and Gandalf engaged a rider each, while Fíli lurched at the wraith closest to Bilbo. The hobbit looked as though he was about to be sick, but he took a defensive stance against the last wraith nevertheless.

A jet of flames shot from Gandalf's staff, and one of the wraiths tipped over the edge of the mountain with another screech.

 _Time,_ Fíli thought, ducking the swing of the wraith's sword and countering with his own two blades. They did not even seem to tear the creature's clothes. _We just need to give Gandalf time._

His family's battle cries rang in his ears, and out of the corner of his eye he saw more flames. Then he heard the distinctive crash of metal on stone, and his mother scream.

 _"Bilbo!"_

Throwing a sword into his opponent's hood, Fíli whirled around and his heart dropped into his stomach. Sting lay two feet away from Bilbo, who had been knocked onto the floor. There was a wraith bearing down upon him, sword in hand and –

Fíli was sent crashing to the floor with a cry of pain. The wraith he had turned his back on had struck him, but once again the mithril shirt had saved his life. But he turned his back again, because the wraith above Bilbo raised its sword to strike.

Desperate, Fíli began to crawl, three feet, two feet, one foot-

The sword was falling.

Fíli flung himself forward and landed on top of Bilbo.

The sword came down.

Fíli turned over, glaring at the attacker and striking up with his own sword-

Too late.

The tip of the Nazgûl's sword came down and pierced Fíli's skin just below his collar bone.

Just before the top of his shiny shirt.

And then it went deeper, and light began to dance in front of Fíli's eyes. A scream wrenched from his throat, but he was cut off by a pain he had never felt before. Choking on air, Fíli felt the blade be wrenched from his body, but the pain only got worse. Burning, searing, he could smell his own blood pooling beneath his neck, but already he could see nothing but blurs.

Suddenly there were arms around him and he was dragged upwards into someone's lap. He tried to draw breath, but it did not feel like it reached his lungs. His fear grew into terror and he gasped, fingers clutching at the air that would not help him.

"Fíli!" a voice, Bilbo's voice, cried, and there was a hand brushing hair from his face. "Oh Fíli, what have you done? What have you done?"

 _"Fíli!"_ Kíli was screaming, and Fíli tried to find him, but lolling his head made the pain so much worse and Bilbo held him in place and he could not _see_. Was his brother hurt? Was he still fighting? Did he need help? Why was Bilbo not helping Kíli? He could smell burning, and his eyes stung as if there were smoke or heat in the air, but he could not see. He could not see anything but stars. What if Kíli was burning?

"K-K-K-" Fíli coughed, but still it did not feel like he was breathing – _why couldn't he breathe?_ – and he could not get past the first letter of his brother's name.

"Kíli's fine," Bilbo's voice sobbed. "You hold on, Fíli, you hold on now. Good boy, you brave, brave boy, just hold on, Gandalf's coming! Gandalf!"

Then he felt a hand take his, and his mother's voice murmured to him. "Stay with us, dushtêl, you stay with Amad. Amad's here, everything is going to be fine. You're going to be alright, Fíli, you're going to be alright."

The sounds were getting fainter, and Fíli felt his useless eyelids flutter.

"No!" Kíli, that was Kíli's voice, and a hand seized the one his mother did not hold, so tight that it hurt. "No, no, Fee, don't you dare. _Gandalf_! Fíli you stay awake, dammit! Fíli!"

Terror flooded every one of Fíli's veins as his eyes dragged themselves closed. He tried to cling to his mother's hand, to cling to consciousness but he was being pulled, pulled by the darkness and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He could hear Kíli screaming.

 _"Stop it, Fíli, stop it, wake up, wake up_ now!"

 _I'm trying,_ he thought, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. _I'm trying, Kíli, don't leave me, Kíli, please…_

 _I don't want to die._

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It feels a bit more whole now, to me, so do let me know if you agree, or disagree, or have any other comments in general. Until next time, thank you, and take care.**


	13. Chapter 13: The Seer and the Dark

**Here we are, day 13! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and please forgive any typos!**

 **Chapter Thirteen: The Seer and the Dark**

The Company Room had not seen so tense a scene in years.

The fire that crackled in the hearth barely seemed to warm the room, and its red light did little to lighten the mood. Thorin sat in his armchair, but other than Glóin and Bombur, no one else seemed able to sit down. Dori was pacing before the fire, throwing shadows across the room, and Balin was leaning over the table behind Thorin, pouring over his maps. Dwalin was leaning against the wall by the fire place, wreathed in shadows with a mug of ale in his hand. Óin stood behind his brother's chair, his trumpet jammed into his ear. Whenever anyone spoke, he would step towards them, unwilling to lose a single word of what was said. But no one was speaking now. There was absolute silence, save for the crackling of the fire.

Then, Thorin heard faint steps coming down the hall, and there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," he called, and a young, familiar warrior walked in.

"Your majesty," Ari said, bowing low. "My lords. We have filled the grain stores to their maximum, and are working with Dale to import more food into the mountain. If we are to survive a siege, more provisions will have to be made, but we are already importing hay and straw by the tonne in case herds must be kept in the mountain. The people of New Dale are themselves readying for war, and their women and children preparing to shelter here, when the time comes. Thus far, everything has gone according to plan."

"Thank you, Ari," Thorin said, though he wondered why the soldier had come to tell him this. Thorin knew most of it already, and though it was a relief to hear that everything was going smoothly, it was hardly news.

Moreover, Thorin had known Ari since he was born – he had held him as a babe, in fact – and the king had mourned deeply when Ari's parents passed two decades ago. The king had entrusted his late friends' children to Dori, who had helped Jari, Austen and Auden protect and nurture their siblings, which only further ensured that they were among those who could freely enter the company room and the royal wing, and among those deemed by Kíli as 'extended family.' But Ari had knocked, and addressed Thorin as 'your majesty.'

"What is on your mind?" he said, fixing the lad in his gaze.

Ari straightened slightly, his shoulders inching back a little. "I was wondering if you had heard from Austen and Auden yet."

Thorin's heart sank, but it was Dori who answered.

"No, lad," he said sadly. "You know you'd be the first we'd tell."

To his credit, Ari's posture did not break, but his eyes clouded over as he nodded. "Yes, of course. Of course. I am sorry."

"Do not apologise," Thorin said wearily. "You have done naught to be sorry for. Dori is right, we will tell you the moment we hear from your brothers."

"Thank you." Ari bowed.

"Come sit down," offered Dori – somewhat hypocritically, in Thorin's eyes – but Ari shook his head.

"I have guard duty tonight," he said, though he smiled at the dwarf who was once his guardian. "I will not forget tea tomorrow, though."

That managed to coax a small smile to Dori's face, but then Ari left the room, taking the smile with it. Dori returned to wearing down Thorin's carpet.

Thorin sighed, massaging his forehead. "We are running out of options. No reply to the ravens – and no word from Austen and Auden. And as for Gandalf…. His horse was swift, but I fear there was not the strength in him for such a journey. I fear for Bilbo, and for those with him.

"There's still time for them to send word," said Dori hopefully. "For Austen and Auden – they would have to have travelled on the backs of eagles to reach the Shire within two months!"

"But they were supposed to send word when they reached the Misty Mountains, and it troubles me greatly that they have not," said Thorin, and Dori's face crumpled. He returned to his pacing with twice the speed.

"But Gandalf could have reached them by now," Glóin argued. "He had a strong horse, if not strength in his arms, as you said. He could have reached the Shire a week or two ago. I'd have been surprised if the twins overtook him."

"He could have, but he did not look like he had the strength to travel at such a speed," worried Thorin, his heart heavy at the memory of the emaciated wizard.

Balin gave a soft smile. "Yet, he is as stubborn as we are."

Thorin sighed. "That is true. But in any case, I have made a decision. I believe it is time to send word to Rivendell."

He pronounced the worse like a curse, but it still caused the outrage he had expected.

"No," growled Dwalin, his eyes narrowing into glinting slits. "Thorin, no, surely -"

"Why Rivendell?" Balin sounded both insulted and confused. "Do you not trust the advice of those of us here? Of your kin?"

"If you think those prissy little tree lickers-"

"Do you know what those riders are?" Thorin demanded, and silence fell like an axe blow. "For they are not Men. We know not what they are, and we know less of their Master than Elrond does. I may not like any elf, yet Elrond has knowledge beyond our means, and more importantly, Kíli has had him wrapped around his little finger for two decades. If he can prevent harm coming to the Bagginses, he will. And-"

The door burst open, smashing into the wall with a thundering crash, and Thorin's hand flew to his chest as he turned to stare at the intruder. She was breathing heavily, her hair in wild, frizzy curls around her flushed, tear-stained face, and her eyes were wide with panic.

"Eyja?" Dwalin frowned, standing up from the wall as he stared at his young daughter. "It's gone midnight, you should be in bed, lass. Are you alright?"

"I was, can't, important!" she gasped, stumbling not to Dwalin, but to Thorin. The king's eyes widened as Eyja threw herself down before him, hugging his legs and resting her chin on his knees. "Uncle Thorin, Uncle Thorin!"

"What is it, lass?" he asked, his heart already racing. He leant forward, and she held on tighter. He patted her shoulder. "Breathe. Did you have a nightmare, uzbadnatha?"

Eyja gave a little sob, but then she spoke in a voice clear as a bell stroke. "Uncle Thorin, you've _got_ to send someone to Rivendell!"

Even the fire seemed to be shocked into silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin saw Dwalin's mouth drop open, wide as an open mine shaft, but he was not focusing on Dwalin. For a moment, all Thorin could do was blink, and open his mouth, and then close it again. Had she heard him talk of Rivendell before? But no – he had not mentioned it to anyone, not even aloud to himself.

Eyja pounded her little fist on the floor, clearly disappointed with the slow reaction. "Uncle Thorin, listen to me, you must listen, please-"

"I'm listening," said Thorin, brushing her hair from her cheeks. As he did so, he realised that tears were still falling. "What under the mountain makes you think that, though, Eyja?"

"It's Fíli!" she sobbed, clutching at Thorin's legs again. "The Darkness left here, and I was happy because it was leaving us alone but it's not a happy thing, it's not! The Darkness went to Fíli instead, it hurt Fíli and now the white wizard is sending him to Rivendell and you have to send someone to make sure he's alright!"

The pain and fear in her voice was so alien, that for a moment her words did not register to Thorin. But when they did, he felt as though she had plunged her little hands through his chest and into his heart. He leant over and pulled her up into his lap, motioning behind her back to stop the others from crowding her. Immediately, Eyja's fingers reached for his beard, tugging it gently – the first move that most dwarven children made when seeking comfort.

Thorin cleared his throat, and made his voice as gentle as he could. "What makes you think this happened? Did you hear some people talking, some grownups, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "No, no, I saw it! While I, while I was asleep."

Dwalin walked over slowly, crouching near the chair so that he could wipe his daughter's tears, but he said nothing. Clinging onto hope that this was all just some horrible childish nightmare, Thorin nodded slowly. "I see. So, you dreamt that you saw-"

"No," she said seriously, shaking her head again. "It wasn't a dream. Not even a dream at all. I know it wasn't."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I _saw_ it. And I felt it here, like a, a coin was pushing in and in and in!" she said, pressing her thumbs into the centre of her forehead. For a moment, concentration carved her face, but then her brows rose, and fresh tears began to pool before her sea green eyes. "You must send someone, Uncle Thorin, you must! I know, I know it's true because it hurts and because I saw it and I wasn't even there. When you have dreams you're just always in them, but I wasn't, I just saw it. You've got to send someone, _please!_ The Darkness stabbed Fíli, stabbed him so badly!"

Dwalin tutted gently, "Fíli's fine, lass, I'm sure of it."

"No!" she cried, tugging more painfully on Thorin's beard. "No, he isn't, he just isn't, Uncle Thorin-"

"You keep saying the Darkness?" Thorin said calmly, though he felt anything but. "What is the Darkness?"

"The Darkness that came to the door and looked for Uncle Bilbo," she said, tears dribbling off her chin. "It came and knocked on the gate, and it made me feel bad. In, in here-" she pointed to her stomach "-it was cold and wriggly and it hurt, like, like there was frozen rats scratching at my tummy. And I heard Ada tell Ama that the Darkness was looking for Uncle Bilbo. _That_ Darkness."

"Lass," said Dwalin soothingly, reaching out towards her. "It's just a dream, alright? Let's get you back to bed – Ama can get you something for your tummy-"

"It doesn't hurt _now!"_ she cried, smacking his hand away. Thorin's eyes widened – even as a babe, he had never seen the child strike at her father. That Dwalin did not even try to reprimand her was a testament to how worried he must be. "It hurt because the Darkness was here, but it's not now! It's away-away, it stabbed Fili on the dead hill, and the Light can't get back in. If he goes to Rivendell the Light can maybe come back in! The White Elves know how to make the Darkness go away, and the White Wizard man is trying to help but he's not very well, Uncle Thorin, he's not. And Fíli – we've got to know if Fíli's alright, I'm scared he's not, Uncle Thorin, I'm scared he's not!"

For the first time, Balin spoke. "What does the dead hill look like, nuthanuth?"

"Why's that matter?" she cried, but Thorin rubbed her back gently.

"It will help us know where Fíli is," he said. "What does it look like?"

Eyja swallowed, but closed her eyes and nodded shakily. "It's, it's tall and quite skinny, like the top of the mountain, but its smaller. But where it is it's tall, because it's on some low bits. There's all ruins on top, old rocks that just fall down everywhere, and there's a bit on the top that you can see all around from, all around. That's where – that's where – Uncle Thorin, I'm scared!"

"It could be Weathertop," Balin murmured, and as his eyes met Thorin, the king knew that they were both thinking the same thing. The sensation she had described of a painful pressure in the centre of one's head was often described by Seers, when they explained their experience to regular folk. For dwarves, it was rare to experience dream visions – it was far more common to have skill with Seeing Cards or reading portents – but it was not unheard of. Thorin had met only one in his life, and that was when he was little older than Eyja, but as his eyes fell on Óin, Thorin realised that Seeing ran in the family.

"I'm scared," she sobbed again, pulling his beard. "Uncle Thorin-"

Thorin ran his fingers through her hair, but he had made up his mind completely. No protests of the others could stop him sending a messenger now - not that he expected any protests now. "Me too, mizimith. I am afraid too. I swear to you, I will send someone to Rivendell. Does that make you feel better?"

"Yes…" She paused, and then her face crumpled. "And no. Because Fíli, Fíli's still stabbed! Right here!" She put her fingers over her collar bone and poked the soft skin above it – the skin that would be just accessible over the top of Fíli's mithril coat. "He can't breathe."

Thorin's head span, and he gripped the arm of his chair. He could not breathe himself.

"Eyja," Balin asked slowly, voicing the question on Thorin's mind. "Have you ever seen things like this before? Had dreams, that turned out to be true?"

She frowned, for a moment looking distracted. "Doesn't everyone?"

Pale as the marble floor, Dwalin snorted, shaking his head. "No, child. We don't."

"Is that why you don't believe me?" she asked, her voice rising dangerously back towards a wail.

"We believe you, Eyja" said Thorin, though he wished with his whole heart that he did not. "We do."

* * *

Inside, Bilbo was burning. His heart felt like it was caught in a red-hot vice in the forge – it was being crushed and burnt, crushed and burnt at the same time, and the pain was so intense that he could not breathe. Gnarled and knotted, his stomach was aching, and his throat felt so tight, so _sore_. His hands were shaking, and tremors ran throughout his whole body.

But Bilbo did not have time to be in pain. Because in his arms, Fíli was dying.

Fíli, his son, his wonderful, brilliant son was bleeding out in his lap. And now his eyes were closed, and he was not moving. Trying to stop himself from dissolving into hysterics, Bilbo tightened his arms around Fíli's chest and glanced at his wife. She looked like her heart was in a vice, too. There were tears streaming down her face, falling from her chin, and no sound fell from her open mouth. Her hands were clasped around Fíli's, and her eyes…

Her eyes were full of anguish, and her eyes were void of hope.

Dís did not move.

Between them, Kíli could not stay still. He was shaking worse than Bilbo, sobbing and rocking back and forward and back and forward and back and forward. His hands were clenched around Fíli's tunic, white knuckles, bloody knuckles.

Wordlessly, Gandalf crashed to his knees on Fíli's other side and began ripping his clothes away to reach the wound. The wizard batted Kíli's hands away, and the younger prince fell against Bilbo, reaching out to entwin his fingers in his brother's hair instead.

"Fee," Kíli keened, "Fíli… my Fee…"

When the tunic was gone, Fíli's blood spilled down over the mithril and onto Bilbo's hands, and Bilbo let out a sob.

"Bilbo," Gandalf said gruffly, "help me get this off him, I must see the wound, now!"

Nodding blindly, Bilbo unlocked his arms to lift Fíli up. Dís helped Bilbo to pull what should have saved their son's life over his head. Like he was an infant. Their baby. Bilbo had never known Fíli as a baby, and now he feared he would never see him grow any older. The moment that the shirt was gone, Bilbo wrapped his arms back around Fíli's waist. It felt as though maybe, just maybe, if he could hold onto Fíli he could keep his son alive. He could feel the dwarf's chest rising and falling, but it was just a little, so weak, so fast. So shallow. Fíli's breaths were so shallow.

"Gandalf," Bilbo tried to say, but his word caught in his throat. "Gandalf…"

The wizard held his hand over the wound and closed his eyes, murmuring slightly in a language that Bilbo did not know. Then his eyes opened, and he stared at Bilbo, and the hobbit's eyes filled with tears. He started to shake his head, slowly at first, but then more desperately.

"No, no, Gandalf, no, there must be something you can do, oh _Mahal,_ Fíli…" Bilbo gasped, and Dís started to sob. Keening, Kíli dropped his forehead to Fíli's, before dropping to the side and hugging his brother's arm. "Gandalf," Bilbo choked. "Please, please, you have to do _something._ Please… please… There, there must be something… Oh, Fíli… Fíli…"

A tear trailing down his cheek, Gandalf held two shaking hands over Fíli's chest. He began to speak again in that strange language, and Bilbo held his oldest son just a little tighter. Fíli's blood was pooling against his arms, and it made his stomach churn. The hobbit bowed down to press a kiss onto Fíli's forehead, and then another on Kíli's. His younger son whimpered and pressed his face into Fíli's shoulder.

Fíli's breaths were getting weaker.

"Hold on, Fíli," Bilbo whispered into Fíli's ear, his words catching on his sobs. "Just hold on. Hold on. Don't you leave us now, my boy. Don't you leave us now, not now. Not now." There were too many tears in Bilbo's throat for him to continue, so he bowed his head and he waited.

And waited. And then, before he knew it, the sun began to rise. Gandalf sighed heavily and leant backwards. Bilbo jerked upright, and his heart clenched as he saw the wizard cover his bowed face with his hands.

"Gandalf?" Bilbo did not know whether he had gasped or sobbed.

"Don't," Dís choked desperately, tearing her gaze from her son's face for the first time in hours. "Don't stop, don't give- don't give up, please, don't give up on my baby."

"My lady," Gandalf replied, his own voice rather strangled. "I would never, ever give up on your son. Never. But the wound is severe, and we have lingered here too long already. My strength is waning, and I have only just managed to stop the bleeding."

With a jolt to his heart, Bilbo looked down. Sure enough, there was no fresh blood spilling from Fíli's chest, and the wound seemed to have closed a little.

"That," Kíli said, his voice hoarse, raising his head slightly, "that's good, though isn't it? The bleeding's stopped?"

"It has." Gandalf closed his eyes. "But the wound is severe and poison of a Morgul blade is fierce, and I have not the power to purge the poison straight away. All… all that I have done is offered him a reprieve."

"What?" Kíli demanded, horror and anger merging in his eyes. "Elladan and Tauriel fixed Bilbo, _he_ was stabbed with a Morgul blade-"

"Kíli, I am weak," the wizard murmured, tears rolling off of his crooked nose. "My strength is not limitless, and my power is not omnipotent. There is only so much I can do, and the fight and healing have drained me. The blade pierced his throat from the inside, Kíli, and nicked a major artery. Such wounds are not easy to coax into healing, even for one as strong as your brother. If… if I rest, I might be able to muster the strength to stay the flow of the poison and stabilise his condition. If that works, we may yet make it to Rivendell on time. But now… I cannot do any more now, my dear Kíli. It would drain me of all my magic for days, and that is a risk we cannot take."

"Cannot take?" cried Kíli, his fists clenching. "This is Fíli, _Fíli,_ he is worth _any_ risk!"

"And if my power is spent, and we are ambushed again I will not be able to banish them," Gandalf said, his voice laced with fatigue and despair. "The same fate may befall me, and you, and your mother and father – who will save us then?"

With a gasping sob, Kíli looked down at his brother, the anger in his eyes dissipating. Then he squeezed his eyes closed. "F-forgive me, Gandalf. I, I…"

"I know, my dear Kíli," the wizard smiled sadly, and when he spoke the words seemed to pain him. "Believe me when I say that our best hope is to make for Rivendell with all the speed we have. We do not have long; some of the riders may still be out there. If we are lucky I may regain strength before then, and perhaps even find some herbs that may help us. Athelas, the like. And if we are lucky, and Fíli is strong, he may yet survive."

"Athelas?" Bilbo's eyebrows furrowed and his heart began pounding faster again. "Gandalf, we have some athelas, I've carried it for years, since the battle, it's in my bag!"

Gandalf's sharp eyes fell on Bilbo, and then his head snapped towards the east where the sun was rising. Slowly, he looked back at Fíli, taking the dwarf's hand in his own. Then he glanced back to the sky, the sudden flare of hope fading. "We have lingered too long already," Gandalf murmured, staring down at Fíli with an expression that could only be described as heartbreak, and suddenly Bilbo understood.

If they moved, Fíli would likely die. If they stayed, they would likely be run down by the rest of the Nazgûl. If they stayed, they may all die.

Not only could they all die, but the Ring of Power would fall into the hands of Sauron.

If they stayed, the whole world could die.

"We must move on," Gandalf said, as if drifting through a nightmare. "I- I cannot save him…"

Dropping his forehead to Fíli's, Bilbo felt his own body wrack with sobs, but no sound escaped his lips. The young dwarf's face was so cold.

But then, only a second after he last spoke, the wizard yelled with a ferocity that made Bilbo, Dís and Kíli all jump. "No! No. This will not end here. Not like this – not this time, not again." There was a fury in Gandalf's eyes that made Bilbo shudder, and for a moment the hobbit felt like he was a world away. The Ring burnt in his pocket. "They will _not_ take another one! Not like this. Kíli, your father's bag, get it now!"

The younger prince was already on his feet, running down the stairs to their belongings and returning within a minute. He collapsed back beside his brother as Gandalf seized the bag, and Bilbo's heart felt like a blur in his chest. Even as he watched Gandalf tear open his medicine pouch with delicate fingers, even as terror and blind hope wracked through his body, Bilbo could not help but wonder what Gandalf was talking about. Another one?

Fíli's body jerked when Gandalf first touched the herb to the wound, but then the wizard began talking again, in the language that Bilbo could not recognise. Eyes clouded with worry and weariness, Bilbo did not see what Gandalf was doing.

What he felt was Fíli's stomach, rising and falling a little stronger. His breathing was getting just a little stronger. Just a little. Closing his eyes, Bilbo began to pray.

 **I hope that you liked that chapter! Please let me know what you think, and I will hopefully see you tomorrow for TWO FULL WEEKS of daily updates. Not bad for an infamously awful updater, hey? Anyways, until the next time, take care and have a good time :D**


	14. Chapter 14: Scouts in the Ruins

**Yo! I nearly got stuck in town today, so you're lucky to get this one! Still, two weeks and I haven't broken the advent calendar yet! Thank you to my lovely reviewer, I appreciate your support so much! As ever, please forgive my typos.**

 **Chapter Fourteen: Scouts in the Ruins**

They were making better progress than Bróin had dared to expect. Seven days had passed since leaving Bree, and they had seen neither sight nor sound of the Nazgûl. So far, Aragorn's 'paths seldom trod' seemed to be paying off. But with every hour that passed without sign of their hunters, Bróin grew more uneasy. Especially as the evening wore on, and they approached an old ruined fortress atop a solitary hill.

He had been thinking – something his brother accused him of never doing – about their 'luck' an awful lot, and the silhouette of a crippled tower against a blood-red sky was eerie enough to prompt him to investigate. Gently nudging his foot into Nyla's left side, he urged his wolf towards the front of the group. You had to be careful when riding a wolf – if you dug your heels in too harshly or yanked to hard at their fur they had a tendency to get irritated, buck you off and then refuse to carry you for at least half an hour. Bróin had learnt that the hard way.

Now, though, he was an expert, and it did not take long to reach Aragorn's side at the very front of their group.

"May I speak with you?" Bróin asked.

Looking down, Aragorn raised an eyebrow and twitched half his mouth into a smile. "Given that you don't usually ask for permission, I take it something is on your mind?"

Bróin nodded sharply, and glanced around. If people were in earshot – particularly Frodo or Bofin – he could cause them panic. The nearest rider was Vinca, who looked curiously at him. He grinned at her, and then forced a sneeze. In a flash, Nelly was there, pulling her sister away to 'chat'. Bróin thought he caught sight of Vinca rolling her eyes, but she went with her sister regardless.

"Is everything alright?" Aragorn spoke in a low voice, his half-smile fading.

"I am not sure," Bróin replied, stretching his arm up to stroke the hilt of the sword that was sheathed on his back. "But there's been a worry in my mind, one I can't get rid of. I was thinking – we haven't seen hide or hair of these riders. Could that be because they've already found what they're hunting for?"

Aragorn's hands tightened around the reins and he looked straight ahead. "I hope not," he murmured, "but I have not the answers you seek."

Bróin's shook his head, but he had not expected anything more. Forcing himself not to dwell on the possibilities, he nodded at the ruins ahead. "Is that where we're camping tonight?"

The man nodded. "Weathertop. Once it was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl."

Well, that did not make him feel any better. Off to sleep in the eerie castle. Normally, he would be thrilled at the idea, but normally he only had to worry about himself. And Nelly and Nori. The idea of spending a whole night listening to Bofin whine about ghosts and demons and monsters was not a pleasant one, especially since his brother was supposed to be the older one.

Bróin rolled his neck and his shoulders. "Wouldn't it be wisest to scout it out first?"

"Are you volunteering?" Aragorn raised his eyebrows.

"No, no. I'm begging. Never knew it was possible to get stir crazy in the great outdoors."

Aragorn laughed. "Of course. Do not go alone-"

"Pfft, course I won't!" Bróin scoffed, glancing over his shoulder. "Nell, we're on scout duty."

His best friend gave a mock salute and rode over on her own wolf. "Off to check out the creepy dead hill place?"

"The old fortress of my ancestors," drawled Aragorn without malice. "Yes."

"Righty-ho," she grinned at Bróin. "Let's be off, then!"

The pair urged their wolves into a run, and Bróin felt just a little of his frustration leave him. Waiting to be attacked and worrying about his family were not agreeing with him, and for days he had grown more and more restless. Now, at least, he was doing something helpful.

And riding on the back of a speeding wolf was never less than thrilling.

Breathing in the sharp air, Bróin rolled his neck again and felt excitement trickle through his veins. Here was a little slice of freedom, a little chance to scare each other with a creepy old castle, and prove more useful than a couple of bits of unexpected luggage.

Here was a little chance to simply breathe.

He glanced to his right, where Nelly was riding two strides ahead of him – as usual. She grinned, and tossed her dark blonde hair over her shoulder. Like many dwarves, Nelly favoured a half-up, half-down hairstyle when she was on the road. Several braids met at the back of her head, keeping her hair from falling in her face, while the rest hung free to bounce as they pleased. In the fading sunlight, the curls glowed.

 _Damn,_ he thought, _it's happening. Nelly's getting prettier hair than me._

Running a hand through his own wild hair, he grinned back at her, and pushed his heels into Nyla's side. The wolf lurched forward, overtaking Nelly and Kya. Nelly cried out with an evil grin, and her own wolf sped up too.

In a race that was, unbeknownst to them, almost identical to that of Fíli and Kíli's three days before, Bróin and Nelly charged for the archway into the old fortress. Unlike Fíli and Kíli, however, neither even tried to concede. It was Nelly who won, when she let Kya have her head and spring from a fallen rock, leaping through the archway and almost knocking Bróin's head off with her paws. Nyla growled in indignation, skidding through the arch herself, but Bróin was laughing. It had been far too long since they had a race like that.

"Well done, Kya!" cooed Nelly, dismounting and rubbing noses with her wolf. "You almost beat us his time, Bro."

Bróin laughed again. "We're biding our time, hey Nyla?"

The wolf growled and then let out a huff, and Bróin scratched behind her ears. Then, he slid from her back and removed his back-pack, placing I down beside her. "Here, girl, you watch this and have a rest," he said, slipping her a slither of dried meat. "Good girl."

Nelly did he same, rolling her shoulders with a sigh, and they set off together, deeper into the fortress. For the most part, it showed no signs of life. Weeds grew up here and there through the rubble, and ivy choked many of the pillars. There were no creatures there though – Bróin did not even see sign of a mouse. There were faint black scars in some areas from long dead fires, but nothing recent.

At least, there was no sign of life until they reached a small side room, where they found a pile of wood, stacked for a fire, waiting to be set alight. It was unburnt.

Bróin paused, his head tilting to the side as he analysed the way it was structured – there was enough skill for it to be the camp of a seasoned traveller, but it was not the would-be fire of a dwarf. It lacked the nuances, the specific air channels and stacking methods that allowed even their smallest fires to grow hot, fast. Beside him, Nelly crouched down and examined the ground, her hand skimming over the flagstones.

"It looks like one of Bilbo's fires," said Bróin, and Nelly glanced up at him.

"Aye, but so do most fires built by travellers that aren't picky dwarves. There're no clear tracks, not really. Whoever was here, why didn't they light the fire?"

"Perhaps they decided against it," Bróin suggested, peering around the chamber.

"And left perfectly good firewood like that?" Nelly pursed her lips and stood up. "Maybe they're still here."

They exchanged glances, and did not need to speak for Bróin to know that Nelly was thinking along much the same lines as he was. If it was the Bagginses, and they were still here, they would have no need to hide. Enemies hid, enemies and frightened folk. Both could be dangerous.

Slowly, quietly, Bróin drew his sword, and Nelly did the same. "I say we keep going," he said, his voice now barely louder than a murmur. "Find out if there are still folk here, after all."

She nodded, and they followed the passage that led from the chamber. It was very dark inside, with the lack of torches and the night closing in around them. Nelly gave a soft gasp, and Bróin froze. He waited for her to speak, or to signal him, and the pause felt like it lasted an hour.

"I found something," she whispered, and he heard her bend down again. "Nearly sliced my foot open – aye, that's definitely a knife, Bróin."

"We'll look when we get outside," he said, "but let me go first now. I'm in boots."

She was silent, so he guessed that she had nodded. He slipped around her and they moved on, but though he often brushed the floor with his feet, Bróin found no knives. Slowly, moonlight began to appear at the end of the tunnel, and they came out to the very top of the fortress.

It was round, flat, with a large stone in the centre. He would have thought it an alter or dais of some sort, if it had not been so oddly cut. It looked more like a hunk of rubble, flung from a catapult many years ago. Around the edges of the hill were what might have once been walls, but now were a series of crumbling, stone arches, which exposed them to the whole world.

Nelly held up the knife.

It glinted silver beneath the stars, and Bróin swallowed.

It was Nelly who spoke. "That looks an awful that like Fíli's sigil."

"Looks an awful lot like Fíli's knife," Bróin agreed, his stomach curling as he met Nelly's eyes.

She swallowed, and then, without a word, they began to move. Nelly began to scour the ground, circling the top of the hill, while Bróin ran to the crumbling walls onto the thin ledge that jutted out over the fortress. Once, he supposed, it would have been where men could patrol, in days of peace. Bróin peered out over the surrounding lands. He could make out the vague shape of their party, nearing the base of the hill. He walked carefully around the outside of the fortress, and narrowed his eyes. Something was moving in the east, a large, dark shape that was drawing towards them. Frowning, he tried to look closer, but the shape was several miles away yet, and he could see nothing more than a ripple in the shadows. Perhaps-

"Bróin!"

He straightened, adjusting his grip on his sword as he turned and flew back towards Nelly. For a moment, he did not see her, but then he spied her waving from behind the strange rock. Her face was so pale it could have been made of moonlight, and Bróin's heart dropped all the way down into his toes. He ran over, but before he could reach her she held out her hand and he stopped in his tracks. Then, he followed her gaze to the ground.

Blood.

Dark and dried but unmistakeable, red even in the moonlight. Two pools, linked by a thinner red river, separated by lines so clear it could only mean one thing. Someone had lain there. Lain there, and spilled enough blood to form a stain as long as Nelly was tall.

Someone had fought for their life here.

 _Had they lost?_

"It's old," said Nelly, sounding as though there was a lump in her throat. Without pause, he stepped carefully around to stand beside her, close enough for the back of his hand to brush hers. "Completely dry. It must be at least two days, maybe three or four."

"Could they have got a two-day lead on us?" Bróin asked, though he feared he already knew the answer. "We have not travelled slowly."

Nelly did not answer. She did not need to. They both knew that Gandalf had powers beyond their knowledge, and they both knew what speeds their wolves could sustain. How fast their kin could travel if they had to.

Bróin gazed down at the knife in Nelly's hand. He took a deep breath, but then paused. Something caught his eye, beneath her hand, and he stepped around her.

"It may not be one of ours," Nelly said hesitantly, but Bróin grew close enough to confirm his suspicions. And set his heart to a race.

"There're footprints Nell. Bare ones – hobbit ones."

She whipped around so fast that her hair caught him in the eye, and stared down at the tracks. They were partial, and smudged, but unmistakable. Those were hobbit feet.

"Bilbo," she whispered, seizing Bróin's sleeve. Her eyes trailed down to the knife, then up to Bróin's. " _Fíli."_

"We've got to go," Bróin said, his own voice thick with fear. He began to back away, grabbing Nelly's hand when she did not follow. "Come _on,_ Nell, we must tell the others! We cannot stay here, we have to go."

Digging her heels into the ground, Nelly hesitated, though she gripped Bróin's hand tightly. "What're we going to tell the others?"

"The truth." Bróin tugged her arm, his eyes called back to the blood. _Whose blood?_ "We'll tell them the others were here, and that there's blood and there's been a fight and we have to go, now."

"But it's dark," Nelly protested, even as they began to run back through the fortress, "Where will we go?"

"Anywhere," Bróin insisted. "Anywhere's better than here."

But then he stopped, so abruptly that Nelly almost yanked his arm from its socket. She turned and stared at him. "What is it?"

"There's something coming," he said. It had just hit him, he had almost forgotten – how had he possibly forgotten? "Towards the hill, from the east, I couldn't see well. I was going to tell you, but you called me over and…"

"The Nazgûl?" she whispered, her fingers tightening painfully around his.

"I don't know," he replied, shaking his head slowly. "But they're coming this way."

"Damn it…" Nelly shook her head, then swore, loudly. "Let's go. Come on."

Together, they bolted down, back to the door where their wolves were waiting. They did not even pause to mount, with Bróin instead whistling for the wolves to follow them as they flew down the hill.

"We cannot stay!" Nelly gasped, as soon as they were in a distance that would allow them to be heard without shouting. "Aragorn, we must leave, now!"

"Leave?" moaned Pippin. "We only just got here!"

"Why?" asked Aragorn sharply. "What did you find?"

"This," said Bróin, as Nelly passed the man the knife. "It's Fíli's. And there's… there's…" He broke off as he glanced at Frodo. The young Baggins' eyes were wide and white as the moon, and he looked as though he was going to be sick.

"What, Bróin?" he pressed, pushing his wolf through to the front of the group. "What is there?"

"Blood," said Nelly tightly. "There's blood, Frodo. A lot of it. And Bróin saw something coming, something moving towards the hill."

Murmurs ran through the group, but Aragorn cut over them all. "What? What did you see?"

"I'm not sure, but it looked like a group moving in the dark. They're coming from the east," he said. "Dead east, near as I could reckon."

"We need to move," said Nori, riding to the front of his group and looking the opposite of authoritative on his shaggy mountain pony. "South East, around this group, away from this damned place."

"I am inclined to agree," said Aragorn tightly. "But our steeds cannot ride forever."

"We can ride 'till morning," argued Ehren from the back. "Daylight can offer us a little help, 'specially if it's orcs Bróin's seen."

"Very well," Aragorn said tightly. "We ride on – but slowly, and as quiet as maybe. You said they were coming from the east?"

Bróin nodded, remembering as best he could. "I think so."

"You think?" scoffed Bofin, but Soren smacked him before Bróin could retort.

"Let's just get out of here," Soren said tightly.

They made it only two miles before they heard the orc horn blow.

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter! No new scenes, per say, just reworking, but I like this one better, I think! Please let me know what your opinions are, I love to hear them!**


	15. Chapter 15: Night Terrors

**Thank you for your support, guys! I'm sorry that I missed a day (work Christmas Party, you know how it is) but in full tradition of advent calendars (at least in my family) if you miss one you get to open both doors the next day! So immediately following this one I will upload the next chapter for you! Forgive my lateness, and my typos!**

 **Chapter Fifteen: Night Terrors**

To be perfectly honest, Pippin thought that this whole thing had got quite out of hand. The family was separated, they were being chased by the most terrifying creatures he had _never_ imagined, and now they were going to be attacked by orcs.

Yet even as the horn startled his heart into a race, Pippin swallowed and reached for his sword. He knew how to fight. He had sparred at least thrice a week since he was ten years old, and had passed his swordsmanship trials without too many attempts.

But as orc jeers filled the air, and the group around him jostled into formation, fear crept up Pippin's throat. He had never been in a true fight before, not one where his life was in danger. He had never had to wave his sword at anything bigger than a rogue badger – and on that occasion both parties had walked away unhurt.

"We're surrounded!" Nori yelled, _"Imgam!"_

Immediately, Pippin felt those around him shift into a circle, and he tugged on his pony's leads to join the ring. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but then he saw them – orcs, dozens of them, charging, and he could not help but gasp. His heart was throwing itself against his ribs, and he could hardly breathe. Was this what battle felt like? If it was, he did not want it.

He had felt like this before.

 _Fíli was on the ground on his knees and they were making Estel cut his off and Pippin did not understand. The orc was holding him tightly, and it hurt, and he was so scared that he could not breathe, and Fíli was not standing up. He was not taking the nasty dwarf's sword and cutting apart all the baddies, he was just sitting there and staring straight ahead._

 _And looking scared._

 _And that scared Pippin more than anyth-_

No – he was not there now. He was not a toddler anymore, he had a sword. He could hold his own.

Even so, he could not help but wish Fíli was there.

"Take arms," barked Aragorn, lighting a torch and leaping from his horse. There was a wild look in his eye, though his mouth was set in a hard line. "And for as long as you can, hold ranks."

With that, he charged. The sword in his other hand caught the light of the torch, and glowed red, and in the span of a heartbeat he had reached the first of the orcs. And removed its head.

Arrows flew from Merry, Nelly, and Soren, while Vinca and Ori threw razor-sharp bullets from their slingshots. Pippin fumbled in his saddlebag for anything that could pass as a long-range weapon, his hands falling on an empty beer tankard. For a moment, he was distracted by the object, wondering when on earth he had thought to put it in his pack, but then he seized it and threw it at the nearest orc.

It bounced off the orc's skull, and he stumbled back, but then gave a growl and charged ever faster towards Pippin.

"Oops…"

 _"Pippin!"_ Merry groaned, shooting through the orc's eye and felling him in an instant.

Deciding that he better stick to sword work, Pippin adjusted his grip on the hilt, but he would never get the chance to use it. Not on this night. For Aragorn was fighting like a man possessed, and Pippin could not tear his eyes away from their guide.

The ranger was circling them, blazing through the pack of wargs with fire and sword in equal measure. On his left, orcs and wargs were burning, and on his right they were crumpling to the ground. Nothing seemed to touch Aragorn – he ducked and spun and danced away from every blow that Pippin saw coming.

He could hear the clash of swords behind him, and the battle cries of Ehren, Nori and Sam, and the shriek of one of the ponies, but when he looked over his shoulder Vinca yelled at him.

"Eyes ahead, Pippin!"

He jumped, and glanced at her, but she was still flinging stone after stone, and not looking his way at all. Giving his head a little shake, he turned his attention back to the orcs, but none grew here enough for him to make any difference. He could smell the foul, iron stench of orc in the air, and smoke, and his fingers tightened around the reins. Beneath him, his pony was trembling – she wanted to bolt, and Pippin wanted to bolt with her.

With a shriek that made Pippin shudder, a fire-shrouded orc tore through its own pack, and they began to scatter. A handful tried to complete the charge, but Bofur and Bragi cut them down before they could get close. A wolf, Pippin could not tell which, tore from their ring and took down two retreating orcs with one leap, letting out a loud, triumphant howl.

The sound lingered, and then wavered to a halt, leaving silence in its wake.

Pippin could feel his breath coming so fast it caught in his throat, almost as though he was crying.

 _Crying and crying and crying, Pippin clung to Fíli's arm as the bad dwarves and bad orcs did nasty things. And made_ them _do nasty things. Pippin never wanted to ever cut nasty letters into Fíli's back, but the bad ones made him._

 _"Don't worry about it," Fíli said to Gimli. "Worse things happen in the mines, you know-"_

 _Then Fíli screamed, so loud and with so much pain that Pippin wailed, and held on tighter. His Fíli was hurting. And then there were two hands tugging at him, and though he held on for dear life, Pippin was ripped away._

Pippin gasped, and shook his head quickly. He was not crying now, and he should not. As far as his family knew, he had no memory of the hell they had gone through in Mirkwood. No good would come from bringing that up now.

Now.

Now was so quiet.

It could not be over so quickly, could it?

Aragorn was standing, swaying slightly, like a single stalk of corn that survived a thunderstorm. He turned, the low burning torch still in his hand, and took a shaky step towards the group. He swayed again. It looked as though he was about to collapse.

Pippin's heart stumbled in its race. "Aragorn…"

A long whistle pierced the air, and Aragorn's horse responded immediately to his call, galloping to his master's side. Aragorn pulled himself up into the saddle, and rode slowly back to the group.

"Is anyone hurt?" he called, drawing nearer to them.

"None of _us_ ," Bofur replied in a heavy voice. "But we've lost a pony."

Pippin's heart sank as he looked over his shoulder, seeing the faint, pale outline of an animal on the ground. By the colour, he guessed that it was Bali, named by young Frerin for his Uncle Balin. He had been a baggage pony for them. Pippin looked back at Aragorn, blinking away tears. He grew very fond of their ponies. A pony was not a cart, or a mechanical vehicle. It was a living, feeling thing, that you could quickly love – a thing that would love you back, especially if you fed it enough apples. Sniffing, he slid his sword back into its sheath and patted his own pony's neck.

"Very well." Aragorn gave a heavy sigh, drawing back Pippin's attention. The hobbit could see no obvious injuries, but Aragorn seemed almost dazed. He was all but panting to regain his breath, and deathly pale in the moonlight. "We were lucky. Those orcs were trained for pillaging – not battling warriors. But I do not doubt there are more of them out there. Who would hire a group of fifty unskilled orcs to tackle a guarded group of twenty?"

"Pippin would," Nelly muttered under her breath, but as she did she rode over, and rubbed Pippin's shoulder.

"There is an outcrop not six miles from here," Aragorn continued. "There we may have more shelter. We will rest there for a while. Then, come morning, we will move on."

No one had the strength or will to argue. Pippin sighed as Aragorn extinguished his torch, and they rode again, into the dark.

* * *

They had not stopped riding in three days, and now they were slowing down. It seemed to Dís that Gandalf was running out of magic words to keep the wolves and horse going.

The sun was rising over the forest on the horizon, and Dís pressed a kiss onto her son's clammy forehead.

They had not stopped riding in three days, and Fíli had not yet woken.

Dís and Kíli took it in turns to have Fíli on the front of their wolves – the last thing they wanted to do would be to wear out a wolf by burdening it with two riders, or to fall asleep and drop the injured prince. Not that either of them were sleeping. Bilbo had dozed off a couple of times, but not for long. Never for long. Every time that he woke, he looked for her, for Fíli, and every time she looked back she saw his hope dwindle.

She gazed down at her son. Her baby, her little lion heart. He was so pale, so still, but he was breathing. Her hand was on his chest, beneath the cloak Bilbo had put over Fíli. She could feel her son's heartbeat, and that was the only thing that allowed Dís to keep riding.

Well, no. That was not strictly true. If losing Kíli had taught her anything, it was that she would endure. It would be pain worse than imagining, and her body and soul would break down, but she would continue to exist, lingering in an emptier world to help what family she had left.

If Fíli was gone, Dís knew that she would want to die herself. But she would not die. She would live for Kíli, for her husband, her brother, her family, her people – but she would spend every day wishing just a little to be dead.

Because this was not about her. Fíli, her bright, beautiful boy, did not deserve to die like this. He was not five years past a hundred, not five years past coming of age. He had achieved – and suffered – so much, and he deserved better. There was so much he could do, so much he could achieve.

So many laughs to be shared. So many hugs to give. So many hours to spend with his loved ones.

"We will stop soon," Gandalf called, snapping Dís from her thoughts. "As soon as we reach the woods."

She let out a long breath she did not know she had been holding and closed her eyes.

"Hang on, dushtêl," Dís murmured into her baby's ear. Her voice hurt from a lack of use, but it did not stop her. "Don't you leave your Amad now. I love you more than my life, my darling."

Fili's lolling head shifted slightly, moving upwards, and Dís stopped breathing. It could not be – the motion of the running wolf must have – Fíli's mouth opened a little, and his face turned further towards Dís' chest.

"Fíli," she whispered, before clearing her throat and speaking more loudly. "Fíli, dushtêl, can you hear me?" She thought that she heard a soft groan, and her heart quickened. "Fíli?"

Fíli's eyelids crinkled and flickered, and he let out a whine-like sound. It was quiet and weak, but it was audible.

"It's Amad, Fíli," Dís stroked Fíli's hair with a shaking hand as his face pressed gently against her. "It's Amad, you're safe now. Safe now, baby." Inside her chest, her heart was so fast that she could not feel individual beats, and it felt like all of the air was leaking from her lungs, but hope was kindled, and –

Eyelids crunching up as though he were in pain, Fíli groaned. She could feel his chest falling more deeply and rising more strongly, and tears fell from her cheeks to her son's golden hair.

"Fíli, dushtêl, that's right, just hold on."

The trees were drawing nearer, and to her right, Kíli was slumped over on Luno. His face was hidden in the wolf's fur, but Dís knew that he was not asleep.

Kíli had not slept a wink since Fíli had been stabbed, and it was taking its toll on him. He looked more haggard than a vagabond, with bruise-like circles beneath his eyes. She would have thought he had finally succumbed, if it were not for the way that the hand nearest to her flicked through various Iglishmêk symbols. She sighed, wishing that her son would not try so hard to stay awake. But she could not blame him. She had hardly slept herself.

Finally, they rode beneath the cover of the trees, and almost the moment that they did, Gandalf called them to a halt. All four wolves collapsed straight to the floor, panting heavily with their tongues lolling out. Gandalf's horse was the only one to wait for its rider to dismount before slumping down itself.

Dís rose on shaking legs, shifting Fíli's weight in her arms. Holding him like a babe was hardly easy, but she refused to let Kíli take him from her, and made her way slowly to a nearby tree. She sat down before it, leaning her back against its bark and settling Fíli so that his head was in her lap, and his body nestled between her legs. He used to fall asleep in that position when he was a toddler, 'listening for the baby.' For Kíli.

The wounded prince took a deep breath, deeper than any she had seen in days. Hope sparked in Dís, and she held her own breath, desperate to see any sign of progress.

And then, Fíli screamed.

He began to thrash in her lap, tossing himself against her legs, but with rising panic Dís realised that these were not the right words, scream and thrash and toss. There was strength in a scream, in a thrash, but there was no strength in Fíli. His flailing felt like that of a babe, and his cries sounded so weak.

Before she could blink, Kíli was beside her, seizing his brother's hand. "Fee! _Fíli_!"

"Gandalf!" Dís yelled, needlessly – the wizard was already bustling over, a pale Bilbo at his heels.

His head lolling to the side, Fíli cried out again. His eyelids were opening, but showed only the whites of his eyes. What hope Dís had felt bled away, and the wizard knelt beside them, passing his hand over Fíli's face, and then his wound.

The wizard's face relaxed, and he began to speak quietly, words that Dís could not understand. Bilbo and Kíli, however, looked up, and seemed to be following his every word. Elvish, then, he was speaking in Elvish.

Slowly, Fíli stopped fighting. His body relaxed, his breathing slowed, and he slumped against his mother. All but lifeless, again.

"The wound is healing," Gandalf said. "But I have not the strength to chase another nightmare away, should it strike."

"Nightmare?" Bilbo whispered, his eyes puffy and red.

"If he's healing," Kíli croaked, "why won't he wake?"

Dís swallowed as she glanced at Gandalf. The wizard was on his knees, bent nearly double, breathing heavily and trembling. In the gathering light he looked pale, and his eyes were half-closed. There was still a frail look to him, as there had been since he arrived in Bag End, but it was more pronounced that it had been before Weathertop.

"Because," he sighed, "there is still a long way to go, yet. He is only barely stable, my… my dear Kíli."

"Are you alright?" Dís asked softly, meeting the wizard's eyes as she stroked Fíli's hair.

"I am spent, my lady," he said. It sounded as though every word was an effort. "We have travelled far, and your son is not in pain, for now. The athelas did its job. He will live. But the effort has drained me, and I must rest. We must rest."

Dís nodded, shaking a few tears from her chin in the process. "Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard's smile was strong as he nodded, but Dís did not miss the pain that flashed across his eyes before he closed them.

"I'll take first watch," Bilbo said, his voice hollow. "I slept a little on the ride."

That was a lie, but Dís was too drained to argue, so she leant over and kissed the hobbit. "Thank you," she whispered, and he smiled wearily at her.

"Of course," he murmured.

Dís let her head fall back against the tree. It was not comfortable, but she would not have Fíli moved from her lap. Not for all the mithril in the world. Not for the sake of her own spine.

Her eyes were quick to close, but she could not help fighting sleep when it came for her. If she succumbed, if something happened to Fíli while she slept –

If he slipped away, and she was not there to catch him…

But she could not fight forever, and she tumbled into a fitful sleep.

That night, only Fíli had any form of peace.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Onto the next!**


	16. Chapter 16: In the Houses of Healing

**And here we are! Day 16, and we're caught up! Please forgive any typos, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

 **Chapter Sixteen: In the Houses of Healing**

There were birds singing, and Fíli was suspended in warm, dark nothingness. All that existed was the sound; light and beautiful and calming as a lullaby. Then, slowly, he became aware of his body. He could feel every part, every cell, and he could feel something beneath him, grounding him. It drew him down from the nothingness, and he felt a dull, aching pain in his chest. The void around him seemed to grow lighter, and he noticed an unfamiliar scent of foreign flowers.

Bag End. That was where he must be. There were birds singing, the scent of flowers, and he rarely woke to such delicate beauty in Erebor.

Wondering vaguely why it was taking him so long to wake up, Fíli savoured a deep breath, and let his eyes continue to rest. He could tell now that his bedroom curtains were open, for that was why it seemed lighter even beneath his eyelids, and that meant that it was time to start the day.

Fíli was not quite ready to start the day. The soft nothingness he had awoken to was still clinging to him, and he did not want to leave it just yet. It was stronger than sleep, and a thousand times more satisfying, and he longed to return, if only for a moment.

His ears were harder to command to rest, and they picked up the sound of someone sniffing. The last remnants of the nothingness dripped away, and Fíli sighed again.

Opening his eyes, he blinked a few times. Then, when he saw the ceiling, he blinked again. Beams? Why were there dark wooden beams on a high, _flat_ ceiling in Bag End? That was not right at all…

A sense of dread took seed in Fíli's stomach, growing like a vine up through to his throat to choke him. Something had happened, something bad. Where was he?

There was a sharp intake of breath from his right. "Fíli?"

Kíli. Fíli turned his head to the side, smiling slightly at the sight of his brother – though he noted it looked like Kíli had not seen a comb in weeks. "That's my name…" his voice was more of rasp, but it was not painful. In fact, save the dull throb of his shoulder, he felt no pain at all. The dread slipped off him, like water trickling harmlessly of stone. "Where are we?"

"Rivendell," Kíli said, a haunted darkness in his eyes. His face was almost level with Fíli's – he had to be kneeling by the bed, and there was such pain on his face that Fíli's heart hurt. ""We made it, though we worried for a time that you wouldn't."

As if struck by a fist to the face, Fíli remembered. Riding from the Shire, from Bree, Weathertop, the Ringwraiths – it all came back to him like a long-forgotten nightmare. He remembered the blade diving deep into his chest, and he touched that soft, white bandage that covered it. He should be in more pain, surely, but then he remembered the wonders of elven pain tonics, and things began to make more sense.

Including the fear of his little brother. He reached out, surprised by how easy it was, and took Kíli's hand. "I'm sorry I worried you." After a long moment, he spoke again. "Rivendell? I cannot remember reaching Rivendell…"

"You were unconscious," murmured Kíli, running his fingers through Fíli's hair. Then, he closed his eyes. "You kept drifting towards waking, but you… You didn't. You just kept getting trapped in nightmares, we could not wake you. But we rode as fast as we could. A couple of Nazgûl caught up with us at the Bruinen, and you grew colder then, but something Gandalf or the Elves did sent the river into a frenzy, and they were swept away downstream. It wasn't until we got here that you seemed able to truly rest. Elrond put you into a deeper sleep – he said you'd heal sooner that way."

Recollections of nightmares poked at Fíli's mind, but they did not seem very frightening in the light of day. He experimented with moving his chest, rolling his shoulders. The pain grew a little sharper, but it was bearable. "He was right, it seems. I feel quite well."

Kíli dropped his face onto the bed, and Fíli reached out to stroke his hair. After a moment, Kíli looked up, propping his chin up on the bed. "I'm… I – I love you, Fee."

Fíli's heart fell. There were tears in Kíli's eyes, and clinging to his lashes, and he looked almost grey. Yet relieved. He looked so relieved. Fíli swallowed. "That bad?"

For a moment, Kíli hesitated, his eyebrows knitting together. Fíli reached for his brother's hand, and Kíli gripped it like a lifeline. Then, he began to speak very slowly. "It was a Morgul Blade. Like the one that stabbed Bilbo in the Battle of Five Armies. But it hit, it hit your throat. From the inside, you were choking, I saw you – And one of your major arteries was nicked. You, it… Gandalf… he did not think he would be able to save you. I thought I was going to lose you, Fee. It, it felt like I _knew_ you were going to, to-" He broke off with a sob, burying his face on the mattress again.

Fíli took a deep breath and prodded again at the clean bandages on his chest. Again, he felt no more than a dull ache – surely not the sort of pain you would associate with being stabbed by a Morgul blade. He had never felt so lucky in his life.

Except for when he found Kíli alive in the Shire.

"Hey, hey now, Kíli, don't cry," he murmured, rolling over so that he could stroke Kíli's hair without releasing his hand. "It's alright. I'm alright. I'm not going to die. Not now. I'm here. It's alright now, nadadith."

Kíli glanced up, his lower lip wobbling like it had when he was a child. Blotchy tear stains were bringing some colour to his face, and he looked as if he did not have the strength to hope that his brother was not on his deathbed anymore.

"Truly," Fíli said, "I feel fine. Wonderful, if you consider the circumstances. Come, Kee, out of the two of us, who lies about injuries more?"

Kíli snorted, and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "That's not funny, Fíli. Or fair. I've got better."

"I know. I'm proud of you." Fíli smiled. But then, an awful thought came to mind. "Are you hurt, Kíli?"

"No," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not hurt. Amad and Bilbo are alright, too," he added, answering Fíli's unspoken question. "Gandalf is resting. He has been for three days."

"Three days?"

Kíli shrugged, looking rather worried. "I know as much as you, really."

"Where is everyone?" Fíli wondered aloud, looking around the room.

"At dinner, I think. I'm not sure," Kíli said. "The elves have been making sure we take turns to eat, and sleep."

"Don't think they've had much of an impact on you," Fíli said, poking gently at the bags beneath Kíli's eyes. His brother shrugged.

"Trying to, then. And the others got here yesterday."

Warmth filled Fíli immediately, as if he had just sunk into a beautiful bath. "Really? Are they alright?"

"Aye. They had some trouble with a couple of orcs, but from what I heard Aragorn took out most of them. We lost Bali, though."

Fíli's heart sank a little. "By Durin… I don't want to be the one to tell Frerin."

"Me neither," muttered Kíli.

With a sigh, Fíli tried to sit up, but Kíli shook his head.

"No, Fee, don't. You should lie back down. I wasn't supposed to keep you talking or worrying, if you woke up."

"You're doing all the worrying for me," Fíli replied, though he was still concerned about the wizard. In truth, he had been since Gandalf reached Bag End – he was clearly far from well, and Fíli hoped that the wizard had not suffered too much from healing him.

"I don't care," said Kíli seriously.

"Really, Kíli," Fíli laughed, messing his brother's hair. "I feel fine. There's scarce any pain, and I feel rested now, more so than I have since we left the Shire."

"You almost died, Fee. It was a matter of _seconds,_ of _fractions_ of an inch. Do me a favour, nadad, listen to Lord Elrond," Kíli's voice was sombre and small, and his lower lip was quaking again. "Please, don't make it worse."

"Alright," Fíli said, lying back down for his brother's sake, though he thought it rather unnecessary. "It's alright now, Kíli." Kíli's teeth ground together, and Fíli continued. "I mean, yes, our father has the Ring of Power, I have an injury and our wizard is tired, but other than that-"

Luckily, Kíli laughed. Fíli knew that his attempts at humour could easily go the wrong way with Kíli in such a state. Not that he blamed him. If it had been Kíli that had been struck, if he had watched his baby brother choke on his own blood –

No. If that had happened, Fíli would be far worse than his brave little Kíli was. Despite his silent order, his imagination showed him the image anyway. Kíli, in Bilbo's arms, bleeding and choking and dying. Then, when he tried to banish the scene he saw its reflection. He saw himself, as if from Kíli's eyes, in the same position.

A shudder ran down Fíli's spine, and he had the odd sensation that his panic was being muted along with his pain. He had felt something like it before, in Rivendell; the dulling of fear and grief. This felt a little different. Every time fear or dismay crept towards his mind they were brushed off, like a cobweb on one of Bilbo's prize ornaments. He simply could not panic.

Not that he was complaining.

"Fíli?"

"Oh, sorry," Fíli gave his brother a sheepish look. "You weren't talking, were you? Got caught up in my own thoughts."

"I wasn't talking," Kíli paused, his fingers shifting to grip Fíli's more tightly. "What were you thinking about?"

Fíli chose his words carefully. "How lucky we are to be in Rivendell."

"Nothing worse?"

"Not at all." Fíli frowned at the crease between his brother's eyebrows. "Why don't you believe me?"

It was Kíli's turn to look sheepish, though he was serious when he spoke. "Morgul blades and Nazgûl… Lord Elrond said that they can cause more than nightmares, that they can bring terrors at all times of day – he gave you a draught but said to keep an eye…"

"Ah. Well, you can step down from watch duty, it seems to be working perfectly. I was actually musing over why I was unable to properly panic about anything. You should try some, brother, it's lovely."

Kíli smiled weakly. "I might, now. I did not want to earlier, in case, in case I missed-"

"There's nothing to miss," Fíli promised, flicking Kíli's nose. "I am fine. You, on the other hand, look like you have been missing something else of great importance. Sleep."

Before Kíli could answer, there was a muffled knock on the door, and a furious whisper. _"Kíli Baggins!"_

A look of guilt passed over Kíli's face, and he seemed to shrink into the mattress. "Come in!" he called.

Immediately, Frodo and Pippin peeked around the door, furious faces melting into smiles when they saw that Fíli's eyes were open.

"Fíli!" Pippin gasped, falling over his feet to get to the dwarves. Frodo was no less hasty, and all but collapsed against the side of Fíli's bed with a cry.

"You're awake!"

"Hello, boys," Fíli chuckled, slowly ruffling Frodo's hair and then poking Pippin's nose.

"How are you feeling?" asked Frodo, with an anxious glance to Kíli.

"Well," said Fíli firmly, taking Frodo's hand. "Look at _me_ , Frodo. I am fine."

The young hobbit sagged with relief, his lips pulling into a smile that did not survive his sentence. "We were so worried – when we heard what happened…"

"Aye, it was horrible," Fíli nodded, keeping his voice matter-of-fact, "and I've heard I was very lucky."

Kíli made a quiet scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "That's an understatement."

"Perhaps," said Fíli, "but nevertheless, I feel alright now. Very little pain, and I am very comfortable. So – why were you whispering so angrily at this lump through the door?" He reached out and slapped Kíli's hand, though he let his fingers linger on his brother's skin for a long moment. Anything to chase the sorrow from Kíli's eyes.

Frodo put his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows at Kíli. "Because he was supposed to come for tea an hour ago, and he hasn't eaten all day."

"That's not true," protested Kíli softly, looking almost beseechingly at Fíli. "When Lord Elrond came to check in he had someone bring me something."

"A few biscuits and some cheese does not a dinner make," Pippin said wisely. The youngest of their hobbits had already made himself comfortable sitting on the bed beside Fíli. "Besides, the longer we waited for _you,_ the longer Bilbo made _us_ wait."

"Wait for what?" Fíli said, frowning at Kíli to show his disapproval even as he looked back to Pippin.

"The elves won't let us all in to see you at once." Pippin's scowl told Fíli exactly how the hobbit felt about that. "So, Bilbo drew up a rota, and it's our turn now but he was hoping Kíli'd have the brains to come down unprompted. A stupid hope. Even I knew that was wishful thinking."

Fíli stared at his younger brother, eyebrows raised, but Kíli met his glance with equal strength.

"I made a promise, Fíli. I do not intend to break it."

It took him less than a second to know what Kíli was referring to, and when it did, guilt charged into Fíli's stomach. Kíli must have thought history was repeating itself – Fíli injured, on death's door, saved in an elven hall.

 _Finishing his story, the awful horror that was now his_ , _Fíli looked to his brother, though he did not know what Kíli could do._

 _"It's over," Kíli whispered, looking as if he was about to throw up. "It's over now, you're safe…"He was fidgeting, his chest rising and falling faster even than Fíli's, and then he stood up, and turned toward the door. Fíli's lungs collapsed in on his heart._

 _Leaving? Kíli,_ leaving _? Why, why would he do that?_

 _"Kíli, no!" Fíli sobbed, reaching out for Kíli, who flinched away. He gasped, terror and heartache and confusion taking what breath he had away. "Please, please don't leave me! Please, Kíli I'm sorry, I'm_ sorry _, don't leave me, please, please, please-"_

 _"Stop!" Kíli cried, shaking from head to toe. He was crying, tears streaming, and he took another stumbling step towards the door._

 _He had said too much – Fíli had given Kíli too many details, too much to fear. He had put his brother through the very grief he had felt when they lost Kíli, all those years ago. The grief he had never,_ ever _wanted his little Kíli to feel. And now Kíli would leave him alone, alone and afraid and –_

 _"I'm sorry," Fíli begged, stretching out his hand. "Please,_ please _Kíli, don't leave me!"_

 _"No," Kíli swallowed, shaking his head. "No, Fíli. No. You do have nothing to be sorry for."_

 _"Please," the whisper was so broken Fíli wondered if it had reached his brother's ears. "Please, Kee…"_

 _"I'm not going anywhere," Kíli replied shakily. "I won't leave you, Fíli. I won't leave, I promise."_

 _Fíli whimpered in relief. "You promise?"_

 _"I swear," Kíli stumbled back, falling onto the bed wrapping his arms around Fíli. Within a heartbeat, Fíli felt safe, safe and loved and protected. He did not care that his injuries screamed at the contact. He could breathe. "Fee, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry Fíli, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"_

 _"What for?" Fíli's mumble was muffled by Kíli's chest._

 _"I left," Kíli sobbed, tightening his grip on his brother. "I couldn't, I couldn't stand it, you looked so, you looked like you were_ dead _and I was so sure I'd lost you and I just, I couldn't take it so I left, I left you, I'm sorry! Fee, I'm so, so, sorry!"_

 _Fíli stiffened for a moment. He had put Kíli through the grief of losing a brother. The very worst thing he could do. He strengthened his embrace with all the strength that he had._

 _"I love you, Kíli."_

 _Kíli sobbed. "I love you too, Fíli. I love you so much, I'm so sorry!"_

 _"Don't be," Fíli said. "I understand."_

 _With a soft keen, Kíli shifted and Fíli's heart jolted. His fingers tightened, and Kíli made a soft, shushing noise._

 _"I'm not leaving," he promised. "I swear to you, Fíli, I won't! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I won't leave you again. Not ever."_

 _There was only one word that Fíli had the strength to say. "Good."_

Fíli took a long, deep breath. He was not there now. That torture had passed long ago, and he was not afraid now. But he had put Kíli through that again. He had forced Kíli to relive those dark days while he waited to see if Fíli would even survive.

"That promise," said Fíli softly, "was made a long time ago. And I believe I made the same promise once myself."

"More than once," replied Kíli.

"But I am awake now," Fíli said, taking Kíli's hand and squeezing it. "And I give my permission – and my order – for you to go and get some hot supper into your belly. And some sleep – whatever it takes for you to get it. If that means kipping on the end of my bed, so be it, but I don't want to see you until you've eaten."

With a sigh, Kíli nodded slowly. "Very well. I'll be back later." Standing up, Kíli headed to the door, only to pause and point at Frodo and Pippin. "Don't you worry him, or weary him, or wear him out."

"We won't," Frodo promised, an unusual solemn look in his eyes. Pippin nodded in agreement, and Kíli ducked out of the room.

"What promise are you talking about?"

"Pippin!" Frodo admonished, scowling. "That's private."

Fíli smiled. A pleasant sleepiness was beginning to creep up on him. "Ah, don't fight lads. Close your mouth, Pip, you'll catch a fly. Again. Long ago, now, Kíli and I promised each other never to abandon each other."

"He'd hardly be abandoning you," scoffed Pippin. "It's supper!"

"I know that, but Kíli thinks in funny ways sometimes."

For a long while, there was silence, and it was very comfortable. Fíli loved each and every one of his hobbits and dwarven relations fiercely and deeply, but of all the young ones he was closest with Frodo and Pippin.

He had come to see Frodo as a little brother, and he was often the youngest Baggins' first confidant. As for Pippin, well… Fíli had been Pippin's favourite since day one. Sometimes, when Pippin was tired, Fíli would catch him referring to 'my Fíli.' It was a name and a title all in one, and Fíli was proud to bear it. It reminded him of Kíli saying 'my Bilbo.'

Unsurprisingly, it was Pippin that broke the silence. However, the words were not what Fíli had expected. "Fíli, are… are you really alright? Or are you just saying that to make us feel better?"

Fili smiled, taking Pippin's hand. "Ah, Pippin. I'm fine. I told no lies, I feel very little pain. Except in my neck when I look up at you like this."

Pippin did not smile. He simply hung his head, and kept his eyes on the bandage poking out from the top of Fíli's nightshirt.

Sighing, Fíli turned his head to look at Frodo. The young hobbit's eyes were also fixed on the wound, and he looked even grimmer than Pippin. "What's on _your_ mind, then?"

"I," Frodo swallowed, and then looked down at his hands. "I cannot help but think it should've been me."

Fíli's heart went cold. "I beg your pardon?"

"I should've been there, I should've helped, it should've been-"

"Frodo Baggins," Fíli lowered his voice, grabbing hand and forcing him to meet his eyes. "don't you ever, _ever_ say that again. Do you hear me? This was my choice, and my burden to bear. I am glad you were not there. It is not something that I would want you to _see,_ let alone feel."

"I should have had a choice, too," Frodo croaked, looking more and more like a frightened child. "I, I am an adult, I could have…"

"No," Fíli shook his head, pulling the young hobbit down onto the bed. "You listen to me, you take that guilt and you let it go. It is not yours to carry, nadadith. Let it go."

Dropping his head with watering eyes, Frodo nodded.

"Now," Fíli said firmly, "I meant what I said – I am going to get a crick in my neck looking up like this. Do an injured dwarf a favour and lie down."

Finally, his boys cracked small smiles, and laid down on either side of him. Fíli put his arms around them and let them snuggle up the way that they would when they were children.

Or drunk. Or on the road.

Or sleepy.

Thorin had often complained about the impression that it left upon visiting nobles to see snoozing piles of princes, lords and ladies, but there was no place as safe or as comfortable as the arms of your loved ones. At least, that is what Fíli thought.

"Fíli?" Pippin murmured.

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too," Fíli closed his eyes. "And I am glad that you are here. Kíli said you'd had trouble with orcs?"

"Just a little," Frodo said. "Enough to scare us, not enough to hurt us."

"Good," Fíli paused, and then yawned.

Frodo sat up anxiously. "Do you need more sleep?"

"You only just woke up!" Pippin cried.

"I am a little tired," Fíli admitted, tugging Frodo back down. "Healing and potions can do that to you."

"Do," Frodo looked as though his words tasted sour, "do you want us to leave you?"

Before Fíli could reply, Pippin snorted. "Well, I'm not going anywhere, whether you want me to or not. And that is that."

"I think your question has been answered," drawled Fíli, and then his smile softened. "But I would not wish you to leave, in any case. You may stay as long as you are willing. Besides, I do not think I could sleep just yet. Some stories, or some songs might do me good."

Immediately, the two boys began to bicker about who had a better tale to tell, and Fíli felt relief sink into his bones. Just as he had hoped, the stories that Frodo and Pippin began to tell took their minds back to happier times and lighter days, and Fíli felt his own heart lighten all the more for hearing them. Finally, though he could barely keep his eyes open.

"Good," he yawned, "good story, Pippin. Your turn Frodo."

The young hobbit snorted softly. "You look like you need a lullaby, not a story."

"Go on then," Fíli grinned, closing his eyes. "Durin knows I have sung you enough in my time."

Frodo rolled his eyes, but he was a Baggins through and through, and just as it was with Kíli and Bilbo, it was not difficult to coax the lad into singing.

 _"The old man had a daughter fair_

 _Scarce in her tweens when summons came_

 _Bidding her father take up arms_

 _And follow the army away._

 _She watched him take with shaking arms_

 _His worn cloak and rusting sword_

 _And she begged him not to go,_

 _To die at the whim of a lord."_

By the end of the first verse, Fíli was snoozing, and Pippin's eyes closed halfway through the song. Though Frodo sang to the end, he was soon coaxed into sleep, the feeling of Fíli's chest rising and falling against his cheek the only lullaby that he needed. Neither Frodo nor Pippin had slept more than a few hours since the orc attack, and not at all since they discovered what had happened on Weathertop.

Pippin wanted to sleep, badly, but he had a job to do. A job that his heart would not let him rest from. He propped open his weary eyes, and he set up his watch.

His watch on Fíli's breathing.

* * *

It had been over a century since Gandalf had visited Ael o Alassë. Of course, it had been a long time since he had been granted the luxury of time to himself, but even before the days grew so hasty and dark he had not returned to the so called 'Pool of Happiness.' He used to visit often, many centuries ago when the days were lighter and Celebrían, wife of Elrond had still dwelt upon the earth.

Hidden in a dell just outside of the heart of Rivendell, Ael o Alassë was a perfectly circular pool of starlit water, surrounded by a ring of pale bark trees with leaves of shining silver. They were akin to the famed mallorn trees of Lothlórien, and had been planted by Lord Elrond around the pool as a gift to his new wife when she first came to Imladris

Whether in the dead of a starless night, or the heat of a cloudless day, the water of the pool sparkled, and the lilies that floated on the surface could be found in no other place on the earth. On the day that he and Celebrían were wed, Lord Elrond had set the first two flowers adrift. They were the silver blue shade of moonlight, and simple in their beauty. Two more of a deeper shade had bloomed when Elladan and Elrohir were born, and the final, midnight blue flower had opened at the birth of Arwen.

One of the silver blue flowers had closed. It still rested on the pool, and did not wither or rot, but its petals had not opened for over four hundred years. They had been closed since Celebrían, in her anguish, crossed the sea to Valinor.

It was then that Gandalf's visits to Ael o Alassë grew more frequent. It was still a place of peace and love, but it was tinted with sorrow, and rarely visited by Elrond's household.

For the first time, Gandalf felt that he truly understood the Lady's decision to leave. When you had been tormented for so long, when you spent all your light just to stay alive, it was easy for a soul to seek solace the world could no longer provide.

Sighing, the wizard lowered his weary body onto the smooth stone at the pool's edge, and eased off his elven slippers. He dipped his lower legs into the cool water, and a little of his tension eased. The water felt wonderful, but gazing at his feet brought no comfort. They were blackened and blistered, and only a few slithers of stark white skin seemed unharmed. He would have thought they were simply filthy, had he not known better.

The day after they arrived in Rivendell, Gandalf had been taken to the baths so that his wounds could be identified and healed. Not that he had needed much convincing – though Gandalf had never been as concerned with cleanliness as elves or hobbits he had been craving a bath for longer than he could remember.

It had taken no less than two hours to scrub away the years upon years of filth that had matted against his skin. Long dried blood had tugged against poorly healed wounds he had forgotten, and he had been forced to change into fresh water when his first bath turned black.

Clearing away the grime had, at first, made Gandalf feel worse. He was forced to agree with the hobbits, for he could clearly see that he was emaciated. There were more wounds than he had expected, from unhealed lacerations from the lashes of Mordor to smaller, infected wounds that had not had time to heal.

However, with Elrond's help, his injuries were now on their way to repair, and he had time to worry about his deeper fear.

Gandalf felt empty.

Never before had he pushed himself to such limits, spent so much power in such a short time, or in such a weakened state, and hopelessness seemed to cling to him like a heavy mist. Empty was the only word that he could conjure to describe how he felt.

The closed petals of a silver-blue lily brushed past his shins, and he took a sharp breath in. The flower floated back towards the centre of the pool and the other lilies.

"May I join you?"

Gandalf jumped, looking up at the elf entering the dell. "Glorfindel," he sighed, unable – and unwilling – to stop a wry smile creeping onto his face. "It's you."

"Indeed," his old friend bowed his head. "I am sorry for startling you, mellon. Ael o Alassë is a place for peace, and should you prefer solitude I shall not be offended."

"By all means, join me," Gandalf said. "I do not mind."

Glorfindel stepped to a nearby stone and sat down, smiling sadly at the wizard. "So, how do you feel?"

Gandalf sighed. "Drained, I suppose, would be the word to use. Or empty."

Speaking of such things with Glorfindel was easier than it was with his mortal friends. They thought him so strong, so infallible, and evidence of the contrary had been known to shake them. But Gandalf had known Glorfindel in Valinor, long before either of them were sent to Middle Earth, and he bore no shame or guilt in confiding in him.

"I am not surprised," Glorfindel said, his eyebrows furrowed. "Your power is not limitless, my friend."

"I know," Gandalf grumbled, though again a smile was called to his face. "That is what I told the Bagginses upon Weathertop."

"It was bravely done, saving the prince. But it was not particularly wise…"

"I know," Gandalf repeated, his smile disappearing. "But I could not let him die, Glorfindel. Not like that. It was not his time to go."

"Were you not there, it would have been," the elf said gently.

"But I was there!" the wizard's voice grew cross, and he closed his eyes. He sighed, and softened his tone. "I have failed his family too often, my friend. I gave his grandfather up for dead, and was unable to save him when at last I found his prison. I was not there when the dragon came, and I could offer no aid at the Battle of Moria."

"It is not your duty to protect every dwarf in the world," reminded Glorfindel.

"No, but they are my friends." Keeping his eyes closed, Gandalf allowed the darkness to spill from past to present. With any luck, it would drain out of him entirely, and be swallowed by the light of the pool. "When I was in Mordor, they often brought prisoners before me. Dwarves, men, women, elves, even children. I was made to watch their torment, their suffering. Their deaths. It pleased the 'lords' of Mordor to dangle an innocent life before me, one that I could call from the brink of death if I had only my hands. I never had my hands."

Bitterness punctuated his every word, and Glorfindel was silent. A faint breeze blew Gandalf's hair across his face, and he could smell the distant scent of baking. It seemed that the hobbits were in the kitchens again. The thought strengthened his heart a little, and he took the elf's silence as leave to continue.

"I could not save them. Not a single soul. When I escaped, I made my way to the prison, but it was a tomb. Only one had survived, an elfling too tortured to tell me her own name. She perished before we could even leave the cursed tower, and all the comfort I could give her was my hand," he took a deep, steadying breath, and felt tears willing his eyes to open so that they could spill free. "When I saw Fíli on Weathertop, I saw all of them. The ones I could not save. And a dear friend of mine, one of the most kind-hearted and cheerful dwarves I have ever met, was to join them. I could not let that happen, I had to do something."

Eventually, Glorfindel spoke. "I am glad that you did. I said that it was unwise, not that it was wrongfully done. And I am sorry to hear of such suffering, Olórin. For your sake, and for the sake of those less fortunate." Gandalf opened his eyes, and the tears wasted no time in escaping. Glorfindel's own eyes were misted with tears, and he spoke in an even softer tone. "We will mourn with you, if that is what you need. It is no doubt what the poor souls deserve."

Gandalf nodded, and again they fell to silence. Finally, he spoke the question that worried him most. "How long do you suppose I shall be like this? Weakened, powerless..."

"You are not powerless, Olórin, though I know what you mean to say. It will depend, but if you rest and allow your body to recover, your spirit will follow. For you took on five Nazgûl in a weakened state, and then performed a healing ritual that had you transfer your life force to Fíli, when you had so little of it left yourself. _You_ could have died, Olórin. You were lucky to make it to Rivendell – if Elrond had not enchanted the Bruinen already I doubt you'd have escaped the final four wraiths. You were almost as weak as Fíli when you arrived, do not forget that. Allow yourself the time to heal," the elf said firmly. "However, given that you are in Imladris, I think that your recovery will be swift. By the month's end, I do not doubt, you will be just as capable of disturbing the peace as usual."

"The month's end," cursed Gandalf, unable to be amused by Glorfindel's jest. "There is so much to be done!"

"Indeed, but much of it can be done without running around like a battle-crazed dwarf, and we have a reprieve here. For now, Rivendell will hold." Glorfindel's fingers dipped into the water, and traced circles onto its surface. "Heal, rest, and your power will return in full." When Gandalf did not reply, Glorfindel placed a hand on his shoulder. "My dear friend, you have not had a moment of safety or peace in almost a decade. Your hardship is over now, Olórin. You may rest, before the next task begins. Allow us to worry on your behalf in the meantime."

"I will do my best," Gandalf promised, giving another heavy sigh. "But I fear I do not know how to rest, anymore."

"Then it is a good thing we are currently hosting a party of hobbits," said the elf, "for they know better than any how to enjoy life's simple pleasures."

Gandalf smiled.

 **I hope you enjoyed those chapters! There's slightly less changed in this one, particularly the latter half, as it was one of my favourites first time around. Anyways, do let me know what you think, and I will do my best to see you tomorrow, but until then, take care!**


	17. Chapter 17: Three's a Crowd

**Hey there! I hope that you enjoy this chapter, please forgive any typos. 17 days in, and I am utterly exhausted, but still doing my best.**

 **Chapter Seventeen: Three's a Crowd**

 _Bilbo stood at the door of Bag End, beaming as Kíli ran towards him. The little dwarfling had spent the last week ploughing down near Buckland with Esmeralda, Paladin and Saradoc, after they had been caught pilfering potatoes from young Farmer Maggot. Bilbo himself had been forced to return to Hobbiton, as he had promised to have tea with his Aunt Belba – an engagement he could certainly not get out of._

 _It had been a week without his little dwarven shadow, and despite the thought that he should be relishing his freedom and drinking until dawn, Bilbo had missed Kíli dreadfully. But now, Kíli was back._

 _Bending down, Bilbo reached out, ready to snatch Kíli from the ground and swing him through the hair._

 _His fingers scraped Kíli's._

 _And two grey, skinny arms darted out and seized the dwarfling's neck from behind._

 _Bilbo cried out as Kíli screamed, but even as the hobbit began to run, a cackling Gollum dragged his little one away with heart-stopping speed._

 _"Bagginses steals our precious," the creature crooned, fleeing much faster than Bilbo could run. "So, we will take the Bagginses precious, we will!"_

 _"Bilbo!" Kíli's eyes were white with fear, and his hands flailed desperately. "Help me, Bilbo, Bilbo please, help!"_

 _"Kíli!" he cried, trying with all his might to run faster. It felt as though his legs were sunk deep in in a bog, and they would not answer him. "Kíli, no! Wait!"_

 _"Wait!" screeched Gollum, his horrid face leering over Kíli's shoulder. "Wait, precious, wait! It says what we says, it does, because it knows now. We shall take your precious away, forever!"_

 _The creature skidded to a halt, by the edge of a sudden cliff, his arm around Kíli's neck._

 _"Please!" Bilbo stumbled forward, pulling a golden ring out of his pocket. "Take it, take it, just don't hurt him. Please."_

 _"Too late," said Gollum, but it was not Gollum's voice – it was colder, harsher, and more full of malice._

 _Bilbo's scream could not save his Kíli from being kicked over the cliff, and he hurtled forwards, collapsing to the edge of the cliff, peering over at his baby, broken over jagged rocks._

Flying upright in bed, Bilbo drew in a strangled gasp. Dream. It was no more than a dream. They were in Rivendell, they were safe, Kíli was fine. Fíli was fine, too, and remarkably so, as was Frodo. Bilbo's family were alive, and safe, they were fine.

He took a deep breath and tried to stop himself from trembling. Really, he was being silly.

"Bilbo?" a sleepy voice murmured, and he cursed silently.

"I'm sorry," he replied, lying back down and wrapping an arm around his wife. "I didn't mean to wake you. Nothing's wrong."

"Well that's a lie if ever I've heard one," she yawned, and shifted around to face him. Her eyebrows were furrowed over her perfect blue eyes, and Bilbo could not help but marvel at how beautiful she was, even when worried at some godforsaken hour of the morning. "You're cold all over, amrâlimê."

"Ah, just another bad dream." He tried to smile. "I'll be fine."

She sighed, tracing her hand down his cheek. "Which one was it this time?"

"Kíli."

"A full circle," Dís said sadly, staring down towards Bilbo's chest. The dark smudges of exhaustion had not quite faded from beneath her eyes, and she still looked weary. Bilbo cursed inside, and wished that he had not woken her. "It always starts and ends with our Kíli, doesn't it?"

"Yes. Though a circle is the right description – it's like the boys are taking turns. First Kíli, then Fíli, then Frodo. I had a nightmare about _Bróin_ the other night, for crying out loud! But it always comes back to Kíli."

"For me too," his wife said, and her voice seemed to shrink. Her fingers drew absently on Bilbo's chest as she spoke, and he could see the fear flickering in her eyes even as they lowered. "I am so afraid of losing… and Kíli reminds me I lost before."

As much as he wanted to reassure her, Bilbo did not know quite what to say. He could never lose sight of the hell Dís had been through during the blissful twenty years Bilbo had spent with Kíli in the Shire.

"And Fíli –" she moaned. "I do not know what I would do without him, Bilbo. And _you…_ "

"Hush, now," he murmured, kissing her gently. "Hush. Fíli is alright. Our boys are safe."

"For now." A small smile twitched at Dís' lips. "Kíli is a magnet for trouble, after all. Fíli and Frodo are sensible lads, for the most part. They don't need worrying about as much, but Kíli would find a way to walk into mayhem were he bound at hand and foot."

"I suppose," Bilbo let out a sigh that was almost a laugh. The image of Kíli running happily towards him came to the forefront of his mind, and he closed his eyes. "They take my greatest memories from me."

"I'm sorry?" Dís sounded confused, and he felt her tuck a curl away from his face.

"So often, now, my dreams will start as memories, and more often than not they are good memories. Sometimes great ones. But they get waylaid, ambushed, by my greatest fears and then I cannot think of the best moments of my life without seeing that wretched Gollum drag Kíli away, or –" Bilbo stopped himself, squeezing his eyes tighter closed.

Dís did not push for the alternatives. Instead, she asked, "What was the memory tonight?"

"Kíli's return from Buckland," Bilbo said miserably.

"I think I remember – the longest you were ever parted, was it not?" When he nodded, she continued. "Was that among your greatest memories?"

Bilbo nodded. There were tears beneath his eyelids and it was becoming uncomfortable, so he opened his eyes. Before he could move to wipe them away, Dís had done it for him. "It was. For when he got back, he gave me the biggest hug I had ever received. Held on with his feet and arms all at once, and proclaimed how much he'd missed me. I asked if he'd had fun and he said… he said…"

"Said what?"

Bilbo took a deep breath. "He said that he had, but that it was hard without his family there. I tried to comfort him – it had been little over a year, he still got rather upset sometimes, but he laughed. He laughed, and said... 'No, Bilbo, I meant you!' He had never called me family before. For me, it was the moment of no return, I suppose. In my heart, I knew then that I'd be bound to that silly little dwarfling until the day I died."

"That," Dís whispered, "is a special memory. Whatever happens, whatever our future holds, it does not change the past. It does not change the fact that we have been so blessed."

Bilbo smiled, and rested his forehead against hers. "We are blessed. And cursed, apparently, though for that I blame your side of the family. We Bagginses are notably respectable."

"Oh, that's a little below the belt," she scolded with a smile of her own, knowing only too well that he meant no harm. "Besides, it's easy to be respectable when you live a life of milk and honey."

"How could you possibly say that when you've met the Sackville-Bagginses?" he teased, shifting to hold her a little closer.

"We cannot choose our relations," she said, kissing him softly.

"But we choose our family," he whispered, thinking of his Kíli and his Fíli and his ridiculous family of dwarves.

"No," Dís replied. "No, we do not choose our family. We make it."

Outside, a bird began to sing. Dawn was not far off then. Bilbo shook his head slowly. "That cannot be."

"Oh? And why not?"

"Because I would never be capable of making anything this wonderful."

"Poppycock. You half-created Kíli, even if not by blood."

"True. He was a savage when I got him."

Dís let out a sound that was half laugh, half cry of outrage and rolled over to lie on top of him, pinning him down to the bed. Her hair fell about his face, and his heart fluttered, and his nightmare was completely forgotten. "Savage, was he? I'll show you savage-"

A rap on the door cut her off, and her arm slipped on the silken sheets. With a startled gasp, she collapsed on top of Bilbo.

"Omph!" He flailed for a moment, grinning at the sight of his wife. She had sat bolt upright, her cheeks bright red, and her hands clasped over her mouth. Even her ears were turning pink.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, though it sounded like she was on the verge of giggles.

Equal parts annoyed and amused, Bilbo massaged his chest and called out, "who is it?"

"Kíli."

Dís groaned and flopped back against the pillows. Bilbo laughed and sat up, though he was a little annoyed himself. Not at Kíli, of course, but he had not spent any quality time alone with his wife for months. In Bag End Frodo had been sleeping on the floor by their bed most nights, and recently they had been far too worried about Fíli. But it must have been the last time they were in Rivendell that his heart had raced in so wonderful a way.

"He couldn't wait an hour," muttered Dís, pushing herself into a sitting position and pulling up the covers, before calling out, "Come in?"

The door edged open and Kíli slipped around it, looking as though he had caught up on perhaps a tenth of the sleep he had missed. "Sorry to wake you, Bilbo, Ama."

"You didn't," Bilbo said gently, kicking Dís beneath the covers as her ears grew red. Kíli's eyes widened slightly, and then he straightened.

"Anyway, I'm sorry. I just wanted to let you know that Elrond has planned to hold the Council tomorrow. Now Fíli's alright. To decide what to do with… it."

Bilbo's stomach clenched. Fíli was doing marvellously – since truly waking three days ago, he had been making more progress than Bilbo would have dared to believe. But the ring…

The ring.

He hated it for what it was doing to his family, he _loathed_ the pain it had put them through, but the thought of discussing its fate was oddly uncomfortable. He shuddered slightly, and tried to shake it off. That was what the ring wanted – for him to protect it.

He would die before he protected something that had led to the stabbing of his son.

"What else is there, Kíli?" Dís said, gently tugging Bilbo from his thoughts. He blinked, and saw that Kíli was indeed shuffling on his feet, glancing at the ground like a bearer of bad news.

"I ran into Legolas in the hall."

Bilbo's eyes widened, and he glanced at Dís. Shock had opened her mouth, but he was the first to respond. "Thranduil's son?"

"Aye," said Kíli gravely. "Things go ill in the east."

"What things?" Dís asked quickly, but Kíli shook his head.

"I do not know. That was what he said – he promised to say more at the Council, but bade me tell you that the Nazgûl have already been to Erebor. They were looking for us months ago. And that Thorin has been trying to send word to us for months."

Shivering, Bilbo pulled the covers up slightly. The thought of those horrid, terrifying creatures anywhere near his home, and near so vulnerable a town as New Dale –

"If that is the worst of his news, we should be lucky," Dís said. "We already know where those foes are."

Kíli gave a small shrug. "I don't know. But I thought you'd want to know."

"Thank you," Bilbo said. "But truly, my lad, it could have waited until dawn. Why are you awake and in the halls at all? You should be sleeping?"

Stifling a yawn so obviously it was almost funny, Kíli gave yet another shrug. "I woke early, and Luno needed to relieve himself."

Dís sighed, easing herself out of the bed. She crossed the room, ruffling Kíli's hair for a moment. "Go back to sleep, dushtêl. You have earnt it."

Then, she went disappeared into the little en suite, and closed the door behind her. Yawning, Bilbo clambered out of bed himself, and put his hand on Kíli's face.

"Your mother is right. It'll do you good, Kíli," he promised. "Go into Fíli's room if you must. But get some sleep. You look awful."

Kíli attempted to look disgruntled, but he did not do very well at it. "Mean."

"I _mean_ it. Rest. There will be time for worrying later."

Sighing, Kíli nodded. "Very well. For you." He enveloped Bilbo in a bone crunching hug, and the hobbit felt a cool, metal ring press into his chest.

He hid his scowl in his son's hair, hating the reminder of their strife and the danger he was putting his family in.

Hating the way that his heart soared when he touched it.

* * *

Pursing his lips at his reflection, Merry straightened out the only decent jacket he had brought with him. Most of his good clothes were at his grandparents' house – there had been no point in packing them, after all, but at least a nice jacket would be of more use than Pippin's tankard.

This jacket was a deep green colour, and it had brass buttons that shone like gold. It suited his favourite yellow waistcoat well, and it was wonderful comfortable. But as he prepared for dinner, Merry felt like it made him look very small, and very unimportant. He was not sure why, but it did, and it was a most uncomfortable feeling.

"Pippin?" he said slowly. He could see Pippin on the mirror, perched on his bed, nattering away about some drinking game that he was going to play with ( _or lose to)_ Gimli when Bilbo was not watching. When Merry spoke, he looked up, apparently surprised at being interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Doesn't what bother me?" Pippin looked even more puzzled. "You'll have to be more specific."

"The fact that nobody is going to tell us what's going on."

Pippin's confused expression hardened into a frown. "What do you mean, Merry? We know what's going on – Bilbo's ring –"

"Yes, yes," Merry said darkly, turning around to face his cousin. "But there's going to be a council tomorrow, did you know that?"

"No," Pippin said, looking mildly affronted. "I wasn't invited."

"They're going to talk about what to do next, and they're going to keep us out of it. I heard Bilbo and Elrond talking about it after breakfast. 'Best the young'uns keep occupied,' Bilbo said. 'They'll want to help, or learn more than they should about things that'd get them into trouble.' And Elrond said he'd organise for one of the twins to take us out to some pool or lake or something – I kept listening, but they didn't say anything else of much importance. They mean to keep us out of it, Pip."

Now Pippin looked offended. "What do they think we're going to do? Swallow the thing and see if that gets rid of it?"

Merry laughed. "I don't think they'd put that past you, Pippin." His cousin threw a pillow at him, and he dodged. "But I don't know what they think we'll do. Probably think we're not old enough to understand, which is just ridiculous."

"Aye," Pippin said, his face darkening so suddenly that Merry was a little taken aback. "But we're not fools, Merry."

"Well, _I'm_ not" Merry said slowly, earning him another pillow. He let that one hit him in the face – he probably deserved it. "I'm only joking."

"So, what _are_ we going to do?" Pippin asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't know." Merry frowned. "I don't like the idea of being carted around Middle-Earth like children just because they don't think we're old enough to make up our own minds. Because that's what'll happen. They'll decide whether we're going home or back to the Shire, or staying here. And I don't want that. We deserve to make up our own minds."

"Aye," nodded Pippin eagerly, before pausing. "But Merry, what are our own minds saying?"

Merry sighed, tugging at his sleeves. "I don't know."

His treacherous cousin raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "My, you're knowing so little today you're almost _me_ , Merry."

Merry rolled his eyes. A part of him was sure that they must be the strongest muscles in his body, with all the exercise they got. "Oh, shut up Pippin. You're not stupid, you just hold things in your brain the way watering can holds water. It's there and useless for a long time, and then when you go to use it, it all just drains away."

"That's not very nice." Pippin's frown was erring dangerously towards a pout, though Merry would probably earn a good wallop for saying that out loud.

Instead, the older hobbit snorted. "I'm _joking,_ Pippin. You should have a quick look for your sense of humour while I finish getting ready. Perhaps it's under the bed."

But Pippin did not rise to the bait. "Merry?"

"Yes…?"

"What _are_ we going to do?" Pippin asked, an unsettling, solemn look on his face.

"All that we can," said Merry, a slight grin twitching onto his face. "We're going to listen in on that meeting."

"Right," Pippin looked surprised for a moment, but then he nodded. "Right. I'll bring the snacks."

"Snacks?!"

"Well, Uncle Bilbo'll be there, and _elves_ and Gandalf and they'll talk for _hours,_ Merry. They'll hear my stomach growling from half a mile away if I don't bring snacks." Pippin reasoned.

Merry considered this. "Good idea. But quiet ones, no apples!"

"Merry, do I look like an idiot to you?"

"Well, your waistcoat is inside out."

With that, Pippin vaulted across the bed and knocked Merry to the floor with a playful howl of 'rage.' Laughing, Merry fought back, wrapping his legs around Pippin's waist and trying to flip him over to gain the high ground. But Pippin had been training in wrestling for just as long as Merry, and they were a fairly even match. The boys had grown up watching Fíli and Kíli tussle over the slightest disagreements, if the mood took them, and it was a habit they had picked up rather quickly – to Aunt Ellie's distaste.

The tumbled towards the doorway, each using every legal trick in the book. Given that they had been taught by Dwalin, it was a very big book. All of a sudden, Merry's head hit the wall and he began to see stars. His hand flew out and rapped the hard wood floor three times, and Pippin reluctantly sat up.

"Alright, Merry?"

Just as Merry sat up and opened his mouth, the door opened inwards, smacking him clean in the back of the skull. For a moment, the world was made of white light. "Kakhuf inbarathrag!"

A delighted gasp came from the one who had opened the door, and Merry let out a groan that had nothing to do with pain.

"Meriadoc!" Bróin was grinning like one of their wolves when they spotted prey. "Did you just _swear_? Whatever will your ama say?"

Merry rubbed at his poor old head, and sent a wounded look to his dwarven cousin. "I don't know, but I doubt she'll be heard over your mama yelling at you for braining me."

Bróin laughed and offered Merry his hand, yanking the hobbit to his feet. "Sorry about that. Thought you'd like to know that you're running late for dinner. Though speaking of mothers and what they say, Pip, do you know that your waistcoat's inside out?"

 **I know that little changed in this chapter, but I didn't want to miss a day again and the bit that I was considering adding will work better later anyway. I just hope it's not a let down with the lack of new material. I hope to be with you again tomorrow, have a lovely day.**


	18. Chapter 18: Dawn of the Council

**Hey there! Thank you to my lovely reviewers, I appreciate them so much. It makes the exhaustion worth it to know that I can make someone's day :) I hope that you enjoy the following chapter, and that you will forgive any of my typos.**

 **Chapter Eighteen: The Dawn of the Council**

For the second day in a row, Bilbo woke early, but no nightmare had roused him, and he felt as well as if he had spent the last hundred years in the most blissful sleep possible. It surprised him, because he had lingered in the Hall of Fire until the small hours of the morning. It had felt like a last chance to enjoy the songs and stories passed from elf to man to dwarf to hobbit, before the council tomorrow.

Today.

Yet, somehow, the stillness of Rivendell had lessened his nerves on the day he had been dreading so fiercely. It was pleasantly warm and sunny for October, and seemed to be the perfect morning for a stroll. He nudged Dís gently to see if she wished to join him, but his wife simply moaned and rolled over, her arm wrapping around her stomach as if to cuddle herself in his absence.

And so Bilbo walked alone, ambling through the peaceful halls and sweet morning air. He came to a balcony that he particularly favoured, as its railings were not too high for Bilbo to prop his elbows on. He peered over the edge at the valley, watching finches flit between the bushes and swallows dive over the rising sun.

He took a deep breath, savouring the scent of flowers carried on the breeze. Really, he could just live in Rivendell for ever. After a while, he heard the faint approach of hobbit feet, and he smiled softly.

"Good morning, Frodo," he said, tearing his gaze from the valley to greet his nephew. Frodo looked better – he had looked as weary as Kíli, until Fíli awoke. The same shadows had lingered beneath his eyes, which had been dulled by fatigue and fear. But now, Frodo's eyes were clear, and his face less pale than before.

And his jaw was set.

"Good morning," he said, his voice soft, but deadly serious. Bilbo frowned, studying the seriousness on his nephew's face.

"What is it? Is something wrong?"

Frodo paused, and then looked Bilbo dead in the eye. "I want to go to the council."

Rubbing his jaw, Bilbo sighed. "So Fíli and Kíli did not put you off, then? You did hear them say that we'll likely talk through lunch?" As if protesting the very thought, Bilbo's stomach rumbled. For a moment, despair took him – he had missed breakfast! But then he blinked, and saw the sombre hobbit before him.

"They did not," insisted Frodo. "I am off age. I have every right to know what is going on. When we found the blood at Weathertop – not knowing was worse, Bilbo. It's always worse. I do not intend on doing anything rash, but I am not a child. I have every right to be there. Lord Elrond says I may attend if you do not contest it, and I beg you not to. I _know_ that Fíli and Kíli will tell me everything, but I would rather be there myself. I want to know." Throughout his speech, Frodo's surety did not waver, but when Bilbo did not reply, the young Baggins swallowed. "It is not fair to keep me out of things, Bilbo, I am a part of this family, too, and just as afraid as you are!"

"I know," murmured Bilbo, before Frodo could go any further. "You know that Ori and Bofur are not attending, and neither are Gimli and Ehren and-"

"I do not care about Ori and Bofur and Gimli," said Frodo bluntly. "I want to be there."

"Very well." Bilbo sighed heavily. "It was worth a try. You may come."

Frodo blinked, as though he had not expected the hobbit to acquiesce so easily. He hesitated, and then said, "I am an adult, Bilbo."

"I know. That is why you may come. I do not have to like it."

"You cannot protect me forever," Frodo said gently, taking Bilbo's hand.

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. "That doesn't mean I can't try. Nor that I shouldn't. But come, Frodo. We will be late. And miss breakfast!"

Almost the moment that the words left his lips, a loud bell rang out, and his stomach gave a painful lurch that had nothing to do with his growing hunger.

He knew what that bell meant, and it was not breakfast.

Together, he and Frodo hurried through the familiar halls of Rivendell, but they did not speak. It was Frodo's silence and solemnity that suggested to Bilbo he had made the right choice. The lad was taking the whole thing rather seriously, and it would be an insult to him to be left out. Bilbo understood that. He had just wished that Frodo would never have to deal with anything so dark.

Trying to look composed, Bilbo strode out onto the porch where the meeting was to take place, and he was quick to note that people were still arriving. That settled him slightly – at least he was not shamefully late. He craned his neck, looking for Dís and his boys, but it was a little hard when everyone else was so ridiculously tall.

He peered through the legs of several elves, including Legolas – he did not look forward to hearing exactly what news had driven Thranduil's precious son so far from home – but many were wearing robes, which complicated things.

There were a couple of men there, too he noticed, and then he heard Frodo give a small gasp. He followed his nephew's gaze and his own eyes widened.

"Is that…?" he murmured.

"Boromir of Gondor," Frodo breathed back, sharing a worried glance with Bilbo. "I doubt he is here to catch up on the courtly gossip."

Bilbo pursed his lips, nodding absently. He had not seen Boromir since the man was but a boy of fourteen on a diplomatic visit to New Dale, but there was no mistaking his grey eyes and strong face. Gondor, too, had sent word to Rivendell.

 _Maybe to ask for gardening tips,_ a voice in the back of his head suggested hopefully.

"There!" Frodo said, pointing between Boromir's legs, and Bilbo sighed, patting the lad's arm gratefully. There, on the other side of the porch, he could see Kíli. His son's brows were drawn low and his lips were pursed, but when Bilbo and Frodo approached his face melted into a smile. He did not seem surprised to see the younger hobbit.

"I was beginning to think that you weren't coming," Kíli said, grasping Bilbo's arm with just a little more force than necessary, even as he clasped Frodo's shoulder.

"Well, I'm here," Bilbo sighed, "and having missed breakfast at tha-"

"Here," Dís said with a wry smile, pressing a bread roll into his hands, and another to Frodo.

Relief warmed Bilbo from his nose to his toes. No matter what happened, no matter what dark doings were spoken of today, Bilbo would have his family – and his breakfast.

"Thank you," he said, his fingers lingering on her hand as he took it. "Truly. I hope the tweens didn't put up too much of a fight?"

It was Fíli who answered. "No, though Bróin tried to argue his way in once more. In the end, Bofur put his foot down. He went with Elrohir and the lads, down to the training grounds. Merry and Pippin didn't show for breakfast, though."

"They wanted to visit the pool," Frodo said, glancing at Fíli. "The one you found when Pippin was very small."

Fíli nodded. "Aye, we sussed out as much. Vinca went down to train with the boys, but Nelly's in bed."

"What?" Bilbo frowned, looking quickly between his boys. "That's not like Nelly at all, is she alright?"

"She's fine," soothed Dís, massaging her abdomen with a meaningful glance downwards. "Nothing a young lady's unused to, and nothing a warm bath won't fix."

"Ah…" Bilbo understood immediately, and he nodded. "Well, that's that sorted, then."

His stuttering faded away as Elrond approached, and a hush fell at once. The ancient lord stopped before Bilbo and placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke in a voice that rang with purpose.

"This," he said, "is Master Bilbo Baggins of the Shire. Rarely have any come to Rivendell under more perilous conditions than he, or with greater a burden. It is this burden that we are here to discuss, for I fear it is what has driven each of you to my home. Take your seats, friends."

Bilbo was ushered to a seat on the left side of Gandalf, who was in turn at Elrond's left side. Beside Bilbo sat Kíli, then Fíli, Dís and Frodo, who was seated beside Boromir. The man looked disquieted at Elrond's words, and stared at the elven lord with pursed lips and a furrowed brow.

Elrond seemed to notice. "Yes, driven I say, including you, Boromir, son of Denethor. I believe that this meeting may make many things clear, that all may understand what peril is now before us. The tale is long, and begins many centuries ago, yet it must be told, that we may stand united against the threat of Mordor."

The moment the name of the dark land fell from Elrond's lips, Boromir shifted in his seat and Kíli's hands curled into fists. Even the elves looked unsettled, but no one replied.

In a calm, clear voice, Elrond began to talk. He spoke of Sauron in the days when he was known as Annatar, giver of gifts and knowledge, and of the forging of the rings of power. He spoke of alliances that had long been forgotten, and the friendship of Celebrimbor and the dwarves of Moria – Elrond's eyes lingered on Kíli at this point – and of the rise and fall of Númenor. He spoke of Gil-galad, and Elendil and his sons, and the great Last Alliance that marched upon Mordor and halted Sauron at last.

He spoke of Isildur, cutting the ring from Sauron's finger.

He spoke of Isildur taking the ring for his own.

"So that is what became of the ring?" Boromir asked, as if speaking to himself. When all eyes fell upon him, he spoke more strongly. "If such a tale was ever told in the South, it has long since been forgotten. We believed that the Great Ring had perished."

"Alas," sighed Elrond, "for had it perished much may have been different, and many lives may have been spared. But Isildur took the ring, and despite my council he claimed it as wergild for the deaths of his father, and his brother. Yet the ring betrayed Isildur to his death, and thus some in the North name it Isildur's Bane. But three members of his company survived, and one, an esquire to the King, brought the shards of Elendil's sword to Rivendell, that they may be given to Isildur's son, who was but a child at the time."

A chill ran down Bilbo's spine, and he looked at Kíli. For a moment, he didn't see the determined, purposeful prince who stared at Elrond and drank in his every word. He saw his son as a child, being brought the shattered remains of Sting. The names in these stories belonged to people, real people, with hearts as real as Bilbo's. Hearts that loved, and ached, and bled.

"The Last Alliance never truly achieved its end. Sauron was diminished, but not destroyed – by the actions of Isildur, his ring was lost, and not unmade. The darkness endured. Many elves and mighty Men, and many of their friends, had been slaughtered in the war. Elendil and his sons were slain, Gil-galad was slain, and never again shall there be any such league of elves and Men, for the Firstborn decrease, while Men multiply. Our kindreds are estranged."

 _Do they have to be?_ In Bilbo's eyes, joining together to form a great alliance sounded like a rather good plan.

Elrond continued. "The Men of Westernesse diminished, and their cities fell into ruin. The Kingdom of Arnor fell to first foes, and then to weeds and wildflowers. Yet in the South, the realm of Gondor endured, and for a while grew in splendour. But as long years passed, the blood of Númenoreans mingled with that of lesser men, and the tree of kings withered, and the watch on Mordor slept. Evil crept into the Easternmost guard of Gondor, Minas Ithil that is now Minas Morgul, and home to foul creatures and dark foes. Osgiliath was left deserted, and now shadows walk in its ruins."

When the elven lord paused, Boromir stood up, tall and proud. "Give me leave, Master Elrond, to say more of Gondor, and of my errand, for from Gondor I came, and all should know what passes there." He paused a moment, and Elrond nodded. The man continued. "Believe not that in Gondor the blood of Númenor is spent, nor all its pride and dignity forgotten. By the strength of our arms and the spilling of our blood are your lands kept safe, and the great fires of Mordor kept at bay. Minas Tirith, the Tower of Guard, ever watches the Dark Lands, and if our eyes were closed in the past it is not so now. We had a small battalion deployed in Ithilien, east of the River, that held until this June, but then sudden war came upon us, and we were swept away. Though we were outnumbered, that did not defeat us. There was a power we had never felt before. It could be seen, some said, like a great black horseman, who brought fear upon even the boldest, so that horse and man alike fled. A small remnant alone returned to the ruins of Osgiliath, which has been held as an outpost since the days of my father's youth. I was among the company that held the last bridge of the city, until it was destroyed behind us. Only four survived. My brother, myself and two others."

It was then that Bilbo noticed a sorrow in Boromir's eyes, glimmering faintly beneath the strength, courage and pride that the man displayed. A grief for fallen comrades – a grief Bilbo had seen weigh on the shoulders of many a soldier.

"And still we fight. We hold all the west shores of the Anduin, and though those who shelter behind us sing our praise, they offer little help. Now only from Rohan will men ride to us when we call. But I do not come seeking allies in war – it is said that the might of Elrond is in wisdom, not weapons. I come because of a riddle that the Lore-Masters of Minas Tirith cannot answer. On the eve of the attack on Ithilien, a strange dream came to my brother, a dream that came again many a night, and then came once to me."

The back of Bilbo's neck prickled as though static electricity was tiptoeing up his spine, and he leant forward in his seat, unable to tear his eyes from Boromir. There was a shadow across the young man's face, as though his thoughts were troubling and dark, but still light shone in his eyes – dimmed, but impossible to quench.

"In that dream I saw the eastern sky grow dark, and heard a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, clear and remote, that cried:

 _Seek for the Sword that was broken:_

 _In Imladris it dwells;_

 _There shall counsels be taken_

 _Stronger than Morgul-spells_

 _There shall be shown a token_

 _That Doom is near at hand,_

 _For Isildur's Bane shall waken,_

 _And the Halfling forth shall stand."_

The prickling on the back of Bilbo's neck intensified uncomfortably, and his hand tightened around the ring in his pocket, almost against his will. Doom is near at hand? He certainly did not like the sound of that.

"My brother and I understood little of these words – we knew of halflings, of course –" Boromir paused to bow his head to Bilbo, "– but we could make little sense of the riddle. We spoke to our father, Lord Denethor, who is wise in lore, yet all he would say was that Imladris was an elven name for a far northern dale, where dwelt Elrond the Halfelven. My brother was eager to heed the dream and seek Imladris, but the road is long and full of doubt and danger, so I took the journey upon myself."

"And here in Imladris, things will be made clear to you," said Elrond, nodding slightly at Aragorn, who stood, and walked to the table before Elrond.

Bilbo watched intently as the ranger placed a broken sword on the table – the blade that had long rested opposite the mural of Isildur cutting the ring from Sauron's hand.

"Here is the sword that was broken," said Aragorn, staring at Boromir and inclining his head. "The sword of Elendil, that has been treasured by his descendants when all other heirlooms were lost."

Boromir's eyes narrowed as if he was confused, and he stared at Aragorn's face, and at the elven style clothes that the man wore. He looked to the sword, and back to the man, and rubbed his jaw. "Indeed? How came _you_ by the sword of Elendil?"

Bilbo noticed a couple of elves of Rivendell shift uncomfortably in their seats, and Glorfindel raised a single eyebrow, but Aragorn merely smiled.

"I understand your confusion, and your doubt. When first we met I was not of age, and went by the name Estel – the same name I used when I last visited Gondor. But my true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And I am the heir of Isildur." With that, he returned to his seat.

Boromir's hand fell from his chin, and his mouth opened slightly. He stared at the sword once more, and back to Aragorn again, but he closed his mouth, and did not speak.

Elrond stood up. "And now the last part of your riddle may be put into place, Boromir, son of Denethor. Bring forth the ring, Bilbo."

Bilbo jumped slightly. He had been so entranced by the interactions of the two men that he had completely forgotten he was not a mere spectator himself. He hastily got to his feet, and then walked over to the table. It was stone, and almost as tall as he was. In the hush, Bilbo half thought he could hear his own heart beating. His hand closed around the ring, and as he pulled it from his pocket he was overcome with desire.

 _Put it on,_ a voice whispered in his mind, _disappear, keep it for yourself…_

The hobbit gazed up at Elrond, who gestured gracefully to the table.

 _Put it on, disappear, keep it for yourself…_

Fíli's pale, lifeless face flickered in Bilbo's mind.

 _Put it one, disappear, keep-_

 _Oh, shut up!_ Bilbo though fiercely, slamming the ring onto the table before the sword, with what was, perhaps, more force than necessary. Then he hurried back to his seat, and did not look back until he had sat down. His palms were sweating.

"Behold," said Elrond. "Isildur's Bane!"

A whisper ran around the circle, but Bilbo caught no words. Folk had gasped at intervals, creating a staggered sort of hiss, and all eyes were focused on the golden band. All eyes apart from Bilbo's – he was stubbornly looking anywhere but, and his gaze fell on Boromir. Mostly, the man looked confused and burdened, but there was a slight glint in his eyes.

Bilbo shifted in his seat and narrowed his own eyes a fraction, but he could see no malice or gold lust in Boromir's expression. To his great disgruntlement, he had become rather adept at identifying malice and gold lust over the last two decades. The latter, in particular, haunted many of his dreams to his day, but he did not see it before him, so he decided to give Boromir the benefit of the doubt.

"Then doom is nigh a hand?" Boromir murmured, half to himself again. "If that is indeed the meaning of the riddle, why did it say to seek for a broken blade? What help may that bring us?"

"It is soon to be renewed," said Glorfindel. "It's time is coming."

"If my hand may bring any help or hope, I will come to Minas Tirith," added Aragorn.

Boromir stared at Aragorn, his expression unreadable, then looked back at the ring. "How do the wise know that this is the One Ring? How is it known that this is the ring Isildur bore? He perished ere this age began."

"That," Elrond said, smiling slightly at Bilbo, "is about to me told. Come, Master Baggins. The time has come to tell us your part of the tale."

Beside him, Kíli smothered a smile with a timely cough, and Bilbo swung his elbow subtly into his son's ribs as he shifted in his chair. Despite himself, Bilbo was more than happy to tell the story – or most of it – to such an attentive crowd, something that Kíli knew all too well.

"I came by this ring in the bowels of the Misty Mountains," he said, and then he plunged into the whole story. He explained how he had been torn from the goblin walkway, how he had blindly stumbled into Gollum's cave, how he had picked up a strange ring from the floor and then played riddles to save his life. He told of his few uses of the ring, and off the strange instances where it seemed too big and fell from his finger.

He noticed that Gandalf's eyes narrowed at the mention of Bofur's brief possession of the ring, and when Bilbo described Bofur returning the ring in Mirkwood, the wizard sighed and closed his eyes. But he did not interrupt, so Bilbo carried on, telling the rest of the room about his own uses of the ring, the trouble it had caused in the great battle, and the Wizard's suspicions. He told of Gandalf's increasing warnings not to use the ring, and then of their last trip to the Shire.

It was then that it got a little harder to speak. How could he find the words to describe the wraith-like Gandalf appearing at his door? He did his best, swallowed his shock, and carried on without a hiccup, until it came to Weathertop. Then his voice shook, and for a moment he wondered if he could recount it at all.

 _It's a story, and you'd think it a good story if you didn't know Fíli,_ he tried to convince himself. _Just a story._

His heart began to pound again as he described the attack of the Nazgûl, and it stoppered his throat when he tried to explain what Fíli had done. He stared at his son's bright, blue eyes, so full of life, and Fíli gave a soft smile in return. There were other eyes upon him, stares of awe and amazement, but Fíli only had eyes for Bilbo.

That was all Bilbo needed to readjust his courage, and continue.

He spoke of Gandalf's healing, and how it had seemed to tire the wizard (he decided against using the word 'weakened,' for he was not sure Gandalf would like it, and he did not fancy being turned into a toad.) Nevertheless, his poetic flair soon returned, and he described the flight to the fords more strongly, only hushing his voice for dramatic tension. He was rather proud of his description of white, river foam horses had swept the Nazgûl away, even when Dís rolled her eyes after the fourth adjective.

Bilbo made a mental note to remind her of her brother's long-winded speeches later. They were far worse. At least the hobbit's words sounded pretty.

He rounded off his story with an account of the attack on the others, and was quite pleased that neither the Frodo nor Aragorn had to interject and correct him at any point. Finally, he ended, with a satisfied, "But we all made it safely to Rivendell in the end, and here we are."

Silence followed him for a long moment as his words were digested. All too quickly, the excitement and story-lust died, and Bilbo gazed at his sons.

Because of _that_ ring Fíli was stabbed – but without it, his boys may have died decades ago. In the Battle of the Five Armies, the ring was all that allowed Bilbo to defend Kíli as long as he had. Without the ring, Kíli would be dead, and looking back Bilbo was sure that Fíli would have followed. And so would he.

 _Keep them safe,_ the voice in his mind whispered kindly. _Put me it, and keep them safe forever._

 _I thought I told you to shut up?_ he thought back fiercely, but the soft voice laughed.

 _Keep it, put it on and keep them safe forever,_ it replied. _Truth cannot be silenced. Your_ heart _cannot be silenced – put it on. Put it on, and your family will pass all the ages of the world in splendour and glory._

Bilbo gritted his teeth, and his face contorted into a scowl. _You're lying. Shut up._

 _Your heart cannot be silen-_

"Bilbo?"

Bilbo jumped so high that he actually left his chair for a moment, and it took him a moment to catch his bearings. It was no longer silent, people were muttering, but they were not looking at him, their heads were bowed, and –

"Are you alright?" Kíli said in a low voice.

"What?" asked the hobbit, rather stupidly. "Oh! Me. Yes, I'm fine, Kíli, quite alright. Just thinking."

Kíli's eyes narrowed, but he did not argue. Instead, he simply shifted his arm so that his fingers grazed Bilbo's sleeve.

"The tale continues," said Elrond, and mutters died mid-word, "with Gandalf."

All eyes fell on the wizard, who smiled at Bilbo and then cleared his throat. "As told by Master Baggins, I had suspicions about his ring from the moment I knew him to have it. I did not suppose it to be _the_ ring, of course, or I would have taken action much sooner. What I did fear was that it was some other thing of evil design, though still it did not seem an urgent matter. When I accompanied the Bagginses back to the Shire, the more pressing matter seemed to be that of goblins and rogue dwarves, so that was what I set my mind to. Yet I could not calm the doubt in my heart. As some here will remember, in that same year, the White Council moved against the Necromancer in Dol Guldur, whom I had discovered to be Sauron himself, taking form and power again. We banished him from the ruins and drove his evil from Mirkwood, but he took residence in Mordor once more, and the Dark Tower was rebuilt."

"So that's where you were when we were getting attacked by spiders and elves and dragons!" exclaimed Kíli, though he sounded awed, rather than annoyed. When he noticed that he had spoken so loudly, he went as red as Bilbo's good jacket.

Gandalf chuckled, though his voice was still heavy. "Yes, my dear Kíli. That is where I was. And I strove to seek out Sauron, and destroy him while still he was weak, but though the council agreed, Saruman dissuaded us. He claimed that the Dark Lord's hope would cheat him, and that he could never return to power without the ring. He claimed that the ring could never be found. It was when I rode towards Orthanc to report our dealings with Smaug to Saruman that his words came back to me, and a fear filled me. What if the Necromancer had grown strong by the reappearance of the ring? I had to know, yet I was hesitant to consult my fellow wizard. At the time, I merely wished to avoid adding another burden to a dear friend – I would not add any more toil to the life of Bilbo Baggins without proof."

Heart swelling, Bilbo smiled at Gandalf, who nodded at him with a sad smile of his own.

"I worried, at times, that sparing Bilbo another burden might destroy us all, but whether by fate or instinct I did not stop at Isengard. Instead, I rode to Gondor. At Minas Tirith I poured through many scrolls in search of lore on the rings of power, with the help of the steward's enthusiastic young sons," he nodded at Boromir, who frowned in memory.

"You had us search for lettering we knew not. You made it a game," he said, before staring at the wizard with the satisfaction of one who has learnt the answer to a long-forgotten riddle. "So that was your purpose…"

"Indeed, and you helped wonderfully." Another small smile tugged at the wizard's lips. Bilbo was pleased to note that his cheeks looked much fuller now. The hobbits' constant feeding must be paying off. "I learnt much, including the fact that, unlike the Nine, the Seven and the Three, the One ring bore no gem. It was round and unadorned, like the lesser rings – thus I knew that Bilbo's ring was either the One, or a lesser ring. Still, it seemed to me that the latter was more likely, but I pressed on, until I found an account of five lesser rings – bands of gold, silver and bronze that turned the wearer invisible, and I breathed again. In that moment, I made a grave mistake: I left the libraries of Minas Tirith, and attended other matters. For much was amiss in the world, and this was not the only matter of importance at the time. On Durin's Day, however, when Thorin was crowned King Under the Mountain and I watched his family and the hobbits, my fear grew once more. I confided in Legolas, and asked him to keep watch on the mountain, and ensure that no trouble came from Bilbo's ring. I needed someone that I could trust, who would watch without interference, and alert me of any signs that my worst fears be realised. I will confess that I was unsure of my wisdom in confiding in anyone, but it has proved useful. Then, at last, I went to Saruman. I told him not of Bilbo's ring, but asked him more of the Necromancer, and then posed my little theory – what if the ring had remerged, and spurned its master into action? Saruman promised that my fears were unfounded. That the ring had been swept out to see long ago. Again, I wished to belief him, but could not shake my doubt. So I searched for the creature, Gollum."

Bilbo was watching the wizard intently, as were most, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw Dís prod Thorin's knee, sharply.

"It was fruitless, I turned to other matters of – what I deemed – equal or greater importance. The ring fell to the back of my mind, until seven years ago." Gandalf sighed heavily. "I received word from Beorn, chieftain of the Beornings, that some among his kin had come across strange tracks, and that their herds had been attacked by something that lurked in the night – something that preyed on the young, and climbed through windows to find cradles."

Boromir made a noise of disgust in the back of his throat, and Bilbo grimaced, though he was surprised to see Gandalf smile at Boromir. It was a grim, satisfied sort of smile, and it made Bilbo shiver lightly.

"You will be pleased to hear, I think, that this creature found a cradle that held Beorn's grandson. Though he was a mere babe at the time, he transformed into a bear cub and either fought or scared off his attacker before any lasting harm could be done."

Fíli snorted and Kíli smirked, and Bilbo's heart calmed a little.

"I believed, as did Beorn, that the creature was none other than Gollum, and my interest in the ring returned. I was near Mirkwood when I discovered this, so I left Beorn and his hunters to track the creature and hastened to Erebor, where I warned Bilbo to be on his guard, and keep the thing secret and safe. Then, I journeyed to Minas Tirith with all the haste I had. There was no doubt in my mind that Beorn would catch his prey where even I could not, for he has the senses of a bear, and wolves at his command, and I felt that I had left my last search of Denethor's library short. And, alas, I had. It took me not five hours to discover a scroll that had been written by Isildur himself."

Bilbo could not help but gasp softly at this, and he was not the only one. His fingers twitched, as if reaching for this lost piece of history, and he listened so intently that he half thought he heard the whirring of his own mind.

"Therein, he described the Ring that he took from Sauron, and proclaimed it to be an heirloom of his house. He told of the inscription, that faded as the ring cooled – _'a secret only fire only fire can tell' –_ and there he traced the inscription itself. Resolution took me; I would fly straight to Erebor again, and set my mind to rest, for better or worse. But alas, it was not to be."

At this point, Gandalf gave his longest pause yet, and the silence was so heavy that Bilbo was sure no one could be breathing.

"Beorn crossed my path before I even left the lands of Gondor, following Gollum's trail in one, unmistakeable direction: he was going to Mordor. Terror seized me, and I rode to catch him with renewed haste. If Sauron discovered that Bilbo held the One Ring, or even that he had a lesser ring that _could_ be the one, he would stop at nothing to slaughter Bilbo and take his own back. It would not be difficult for him, for it is no secret that the Baggins family make regular trips across a dangerous road. I had no intention of letting my friends – or indeed the world – fall to such darkness. Yet when we reached the Morgul Vale, Beorn was forced to turn back. He has lands of his own to tend, and he is not young. I followed Gollum's trail alone, and was captured."

"Captured?" cried Frodo, aghast and afraid and furious all at once, and unheeding of the eyes that turned to him.

"Yes, Frodo, I was captured," the wizard said heavily, with no trace of a smile. "And held prisoner in Minas Morgul for seven years."

Bilbo's heart fell all the way down to his toes, and ached as if his feet were kicking it back and forth. For any friend to be imprisoned for seven years while Bilbo enjoyed a peaceful life in Erebor was unfathomable. Especially for a friend as dear to him as Gandalf.

"The details of that time are unimportant, but there are riddles here that even I cannot place. I know not if Gollum was in league with the enemy all along, when he was captured, or even if he was captured at all. News of the ring's discovery seemed only to have reached Mordor by the time I escaped, for the Nine Ringwraiths set out a week after me. I feared they had been sent to reclaim me, but Radagast the Brown found me first. He leant me his staff and a strong horse, and I did all in my power to reach Erebor. The Nine beat me there – I learnt from Thorin that Black Riders had come to ask for Bilbo Baggins, and that Bilbo was indeed in the Shire at the time. I could not rest, nor could I despair. The race, as you may say, was on. I found a horse, and rode with all haste for the Shire. As Bilbo has said, I arrived but minutes before the riders. You have already heard how we came to Rivendell. After that, and a decent discussion, Lord Elrond, Bilbo and I cast the ring into a fire. When heated, words appeared – the Black Speech in elvish letters."

And then Gandalf spoke with so stony and cold a voice that Bilbo shrank back into his chair and drew his shoulders up to his ears. _"Ashnazgdurbatulûk, ash nazggimbatul, ash nazgthrakatulûk, aghburzum-ishikrimpatul!"_

All the elves clamped hands over their ears, save Elrond, who winced fiercely. When the wizard had finished, the elven lord spoke in a harder voice than Bilbo had ever heard. "Never before has any voice dared to utter the words of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey."

"And I hope none will ever speak it here again," answered Gandalf, looking wearier than ever. "But I do not ask your pardon, Master Elrond, for if doubt is not cast aside and we do not unite in the face of this evil, that tongue will be heard in every corner of the West. Every corner of Arda, in fact. The lines written on the ring are Sauron's intentions for it:

 _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them."_

After a moment that lasted a lifetime, Galdor said softly, "But what of Saruman? He is well learned in ring-lore, what it his counsel? You have spoken of avoiding Orthanc as if it was lucky you did so, but I see not why that would be true."

Gandalf closed his eyes. "Had I gone to Isengard, all might already be lost. I had no time to stop on the way to the Shire, and I planned to visit only when I knew the Baggins family were safe. The very day that we reached Rivendell, so did another wizard: Radagast the Brown."

Bilbo's eyes widened a fraction – he had not known that. But then, he had spent the first few days at Fíli's side, and nothing else seemed to be important, even when Elrond and Gandalf had made him throw his ring in a fireplace.

"Much relieved was he to find me here, for he had been desperately seeking Lord Elrond, and his tidings were very dark." Gandalf's hands tightened around his staff as if to steady himself. "He received words from his birds that masses of orcs were sprawling in Isengard, and he hastened to Saruman's aid. But he found that the 'head' of our order needed no help – at least not the sort that Radagast would willingly supply. Saruman gestured at the orcs – which Radagast noted were larger and more man-like than any he had seen before – and referred to them as his army of uruk-hai. The time was come, he said, for great things from the great Istari, and that it was time for Radagast to put away trivial matters of bird and beast and serve Saruman's great purpose."

 _I bet that didn't go down well,_ thought Bilbo. The faces of all the council were dark and concerned, save Elrond, who looked defeated and weary.

But Gandalf continued.

"'What purpose?' asked Radagast, 'What could justify the spawning of this evil?' And by his report, Saruman replied: 'The purpose of Saruman the great, the ring-maker. It is time, Radagast, that we might rule the world of men. The Nazgûl are riding, Radagast. They seek Baggins, the seek the _One,_ and you and I both know who Baggins is. We might find Baggins first. We might be the most powerful Lords of Middle-Earth.' And Radagast was afraid and dismayed, but whatever Saruman thinks, he is not a foolish fellow. He knew that Saruman had never viewed him as powerful, let alone a lord, and he asked, 'What of Gandalf? What says he? He is a friend of Baggins.' And…" Gandalf paused, a cold bitterness in his eyes. "Saruman laughed. 'For nigh on seven years Gandalf has been the prisoner of Sauron, held in Minas Morgul. His greatness is spent, Radagast.' And it is worth noting that he failed to tell Radagast I had escaped, though I doubt not Saruman knew this. _How_ he knew, I do not know. And what he did not know was that _Radagast_ knew I had escaped. 'What would you have me do?' he asked, but too hastily, I deem, for Saruman knows that ever Radagast was fonder of me, and far too loyal and honest to turn to treachery. 'Abide with me,' said the White Wizard, 'and assist in the greatness that is to come.' Pretty words for 'be my prisoner.' However," Gandalf smiled grimly, "ever has Saruman underestimated Radagast. On that very day, Radagast sent a message to the great eagles of the Misty Mountains. When night fell, and Saruman was engaged with his army, Radagast slipped out of a window onto the back of Gwaihir, the Windlord himself, and escaped. Thence he came straight to Elrond."

"It is grievous news," the elf lord said, "and it burdened my heart to hear it. For we trusted Saruman, and he was deep in our counsels. Yet it is unwise to study too deeply the arts of the enemy, for good or evil. So, the tale of the Ring has been told, from first to last. Only one question remains. What are we going to do?"

 **That's all for today, folks! Blimey, my first 'council' chapter was a long-un – I've cut it here (and I mean added to it, too, but hey) and it's still a monster! Anyways, do let me know what you think, and until I see you again, have a lovely time :D**


	19. Chapter 19: The Ringbearer

**Back again! Though it is technically half past midnight where I am, I'm still going to count this as a victory for the daily update thing. I hope that you enjoy the chapter!**

 **Chapter Nineteen: The Ringbearer**

"Only one question remains. What are we going to do?"

For a long moment, Elrond's question left silence in its wake. For his own part, Bilbo had no clue what to do with the ring. Pummelling it into tiny-bitty smidgeons of gold-dust sounded good to him, but he had a feeling it would not be very effective. Or doable.

 _You cannot destroy that which you love the most,_ the sly voice murmured in his mind. _You have not the strength, or the will._

 _I most certainly cannot,_ he argued back. _Even if Kíli turned out to be twice as evil as you are, I could not destroy him. And he is what I love the most. So there._

Before the voice could answer, Galdor spoke. "What of the man who sheltered your company? This Tom Bombadil? He seemed to have some power, even over the ring. Could he not help?"

"I do not think so," said Gandalf, without any hesitation at all. "When we found him in the woods the thought did pass my mind. I would not say that he has power over the ring, only that it holds no power over him. But once I saw him, and spoke to him once more, I became surer than ever that he would not leave his lands for anything. Nor, I deem, would he take the ring to hide unless all the peoples of the earth begged him. Even if he did, he would likely soon forget it or throw it away. He would be a most unsafe guardian."

"And to send the ring to him now would be nigh on impossible," added Glorfindel, his ageless brow creased with thought. "The lands between Imladris and the Shire are now teeming with foes. Even if we succeeded, it would only postpone the day of evil. Could Bombadil alone withstand all the might of the enemy? I doubt it. If all else is conquered, I think that Bombadil too will fall. Last, perhaps, as he was first, but fall he will. And then true darkness will cover the world at last. The ring cannot be kept away from the enemy forever – there are none who have the strength. So we have two choices: To send it over the sea, or to destroy it."

Either sounded like a good option to Bilbo. Take it far, far away from him and his family, and to prevent the falling of inevitable and total darkness. Surely that was not too much to ask.

The voice in his head laughed coldly.

"Those over the sea would not take it," said Elrond firmly. "For good or evil it belongs to Middle-Earth. So there is only one path: the ring must be destroyed. It must be cast back into the fires of Mount Doom, from whence it came."

 _Wonderful,_ Bilbo thought to himself. _I see no way that could go wrong._ But he nodded, and offered his murmured assent with the others. If it was the only way, the only way to destroy the bane of his family, Bilbo would track the road himself.

"Why speak you only of hiding and destroying?" asked Boromir, leaning forward in his seat. Charisma rang strong in his voice, and Bilbo found it easy to see how men would follow the young lord of Gondor into battle. "Saruman is a traitor, but that does not make him a fool – there is wisdom yet in his words. The ring has come to us, to the free people, in our hour of great need. Let us use it, to grant strength and weapons to we who will not fall, that the Free Lords might vanquish the enemy forever by the doom of his own design. Let the ring be our weapon, if it has as much strength as you claim. Let us take it, and win victory at last!"

"No," said Gandalf harshly, and Boromir narrowed his eyes a jot. "It cannot be used by us – it belongs to Sauron, and was made by him alone, and is all together evil."

Elrond's voice was calmer and sadder than the wizard's. "It is known all too well that none can wield the ring at will, save those with great power already. Yet for them the danger is tenfold, for the desire of the ring corrupts the heart. If one of the Wise wore the ring – Saruman for instance – they would cast down the Dark Lord, but only to take his mantle and throne for their own. Even should Gandalf take it in good faith with pure intentions, he would be corrupted. I fear to take the ring to hide it, and I will not take it to wield."

"Nor will I," said Gandalf, folding his arms.

For a long moment, Boromir stared at them both, doubt in his eyes and a frown on his lips. But at last he bowed his head. "So be it. We must trust to such weapons as we have, and Gondor, at least, will fight on. With or without hope. For though I will not ask for aid, we need it. We bear the brunt of Mordor's wrath. The sword that was broken would bring great hope – if the one who wielded it had inherited more than a broken heirloom from his sires of old." Then his eyes rested on Aragorn.

"Who can say?" shrugged the other man. "But as I said, I shall help your people, if ever I can."

"Indeed, the men of Gondor fight valiantly," said Legolas, speaking for the first time. "But they are not the only folk under the shadow of war. Dol Guldur is occupied once more, with thousands of orcs, and with spiders larger even than those that plagued our lands two decades ago, when the Necromancer rose."

Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli all shuddered. For them, the memory of giant spiders and nauseating poison and suffocating webs was all too fresh.

Legolas continued. "Attacks come every week, from orcs and spiders alike, and though they may be small now, the smallest drip of water can wear away stone over time. We believe that the attacks on our kingdom are, primarily, a distraction to keep us from our allies. Thrice since Gandalf rode west have messengers of Mordor visited New Dale and Erebor. Neither king took lightly to the tidings, and though I know not what words passed between them, I know that Mordor has declared war upon Erebor. There are reports of armies moving towards the mountain from the south-east, and last I heard, Thorin Oakenshield had made no less than five attempts to send word to Lord Baggins. No messenger, has been heard from since."

Bilbo exchanged a glance with Dís, and he knew that she was thinking the same as he was. These tidings did not bode well for whatever messenger Thorin had sent.

"Already, New Dale and Erebor are preparing for war – King Bard will ever stand with the people of the mountain. But the Master of Lake-town is less well acquainted with dwarves, and more afraid. Her people are vulnerable, and she knows this. We fear that another messenger from Mordor may sway her allegiance. The Woodland Realm will stand with Erebor, but only if we are able to do so. If orcs lay us under siege, there will be little we can do. The lands of the North East are holding their breath."

Bilbo's heart squirmed – this was all bad enough without involving Erebor. He had been so sure that the strong walls would keep his family there safe from all but dragons, yet Legolas spoke of sieges and battles and open war, and he looked concerned. Bilbo was terrified. He glanced to his right. Kíli and Frodo both looked as if they were hearing a relative was deathly ill, their faces the picture of concern. Fíli, on the other hand, was grinding his teeth. Dís' face had taken on the appearance of stone. It was utterly unreadable – at least to most it would be. But Bilbo could see the fear in the crease between her brows, and fury in the purse of her lips. The momentary flutter of her lashes told Bilbo of her pain, and the way her bottom lip sucked slightly in betrayed her vulnerability.

She placed her hand slowly on the arm of her chair, and straightened her shoulders. "The dwarves of Erebor will not fall until the light is gone from all ends of the earth and the Dark Lord himself crashes down upon our doors. But we will not be able to protect New Dale and Esgaroth alone. We must return to Erebor – we may be needed."

There was a general nod and murmur of assent, that lulled into quiet once more. Finally, Boromir spoke.

"My heart is heavy to hear this – my memories of those lands are fair and joyful. Yet returning to the matter of destroying the ring," he said, and Bilbo looked at him. He was shifting, leaning forward in his seat, and worry folded over his forehead. "The path you propose is folly. One does not simply walk into Mordor – there is evil there that does not sleep. The great eye is always watching. How do you propose to enter that land, let alone pass through it, and find the fire?"

Gandalf cleared his throat, adjusting his grip on his staff. His fingers were still uncomfortably thin – they looked like they could be broken by a baby hobbit. "Folly it may seem, but it is also necessary. If the ring cannot be destroyed elsewhere – which it cannot – and we have no other option – which we do not – then we must journey to Mordor. Yet the hopelessness of this task may well shield us, for Sauron could not fathom another wishing to destroy the ring, instead of taking it for themselves. Therefore, he will not expect attack in such a way. There is no question in my mind that this is the path that must be taken. What must now be decided is _who_ will do this."

Silence fell, thicker and heavier than ever. It poured down Bilbo's nose and throat, suffocating him, smothering him until he could not bear it anymore. There was one person who _should_ do this – someone who had put their family in danger, and yet had a small chance to right his wrongs.

He drew in a deep breath. "I will take it."

Beside him, Kíli gave a choked gasp and twisted in his seat, grasping Bilbo's wrist and staring at him with horror-struck eyes. The look scorched Bilbo, and he looked up at Gandalf instead, swallowing hard.

"I will take the ring to Mordor," he said, feeling his heart beat very fast. "Though I do not know the way."

The wizard gazed down at him, with a look of equal pride and sorrow, akin to the look of a parent whose child was growing up too fast. No one had looked at Bilbo like that since his own parents passed, and receiving it was no more comfortable than looking at his devastated Kíli. Face flaming, he looked at Elrond instead.

The elf's sharp, grey eyes bored into Bilbo's, and he leant back in his seat. "You _have_ displayed a remarkable resilience to its power. Yet for a halfling you are not young…"

Though there was no insult in Elrond's tone, Bilbo's chest puffed out and he raised his chin. "No, but I am not _old_ , either. I have a good few decades in me yet, if the Valar permit, and I am scarce less fit than I was at fifty. Any hobbit of seventy would be able to traipse the earth at need. We do not look it, but we are hardy folk."

For only a moment, Elrond gave Bilbo a smile, but it vanished like morning mist banished by the rising sun. When he spoke, it sounded as though he was announcing a death sentence. "Very well. It seems that this task is appointed to you, Bilbo Baggins. Yet I will not lay it upon you – it is a heavy burden, and you must be willing to take it yourself."

"I am willing," said Bilbo though he felt very sick, and his heart twisted at Kíli's quiet moan. "I'm very fond of the good in this world, and the free people." Though he could not bring himself to look at his family, that was where his heart turned. "And I would save them, if I can."

Elrond did not speak, and stared at Bilbo for a long moment. The hobbit wished that someone, anyone, would break the silence. Then, Elrond stood, and placed a hand on his heart. Then, he bowed at Bilbo.

Bilbo's face burned as if the very flames of Smaug were raining down upon him.

"I will help you bear this burden, Bilbo Baggins," said Gandalf, placing his hand on Bilbo's. "As long as it is yours to bear. We will not send you alone into the dark."

"No, we will not," said Kíli, his voice tight. Bilbo could stand it no more, and he gazed back at his son. Kíli's jaw was clenched, and his hands were white around the arms of his chair. His gaze was misted over, and he was incredibly pale. But beneath the tears in his eyes, there was pride and terror and sorrow and determination, and Bilbo could see it all. See it all in those deep, brown eyes. "I'm coming with you."

Bilbo shook his head and Fili and Dís both took sharp intakes of breath, but Gandalf spoke before they could. His voice was wearier than ever before. "I think the details of who will go should receive much thought, and it need not be decided right away."

"Indeed," said Elrond, "for you cannot leave until scouts deem it to be clear. Even those of you with urgent matters in other places," he bowed his head to Dís, "for there may yet be orcs or wraiths in the land. You may rest here for a time, while things are decided."

"And we will have say in these decisions," said Dís, glaring at the ring. It looked like a storm was trapped in her fathomless blue eyes, and for the first time in years, he saw how strong her resemblance to her brother was. "Bilbo's protection will not rest solely in the hands of elves."

"No, it will not," said Aragorn, rising from his chair and bowing lower than Elrond had. "If by my life or death I can protect you, I will."

Bilbo's mouth popped open, but he could not find the words to say. He was not sure he would ever be able to find them.

"As for the rest of your companions, they can be discussed over the coming days," said Elrond. "For you will wish to confer with your kin, and none should be chosen for this quest without first volunteering. Without will and loyalty, we can have no hope."

"There is little hope as it is," muttered Boromir, but then he sighed heavily. "Yet there is loyalty and will in Gondor, and loyalty and will in me. If this is indeed the will of the council, I will aid you in your task, my Lord, unless peril calls me to my land ere journey's end."

Bilbo nodded sombrely. "Good, good. I would not want you to put me above your home, that wouldn't do at all." He heard Fíli made a scoffing noise, but he doubted many others had heard it, and he knew that it did not matter. There would time to discuss these things in the future.

Boromir bowed his head, and Bilbo sighed. The words spoken melted into formalities, and Bilbo stopped hearing them. He simply stared at the innocently glinting gold, and mumbled faint nods towards those who acknowledged him as they left.

One by one, folk trickled away, but Bilbo did not leave the porch. Nor did his family, and nor did Gandalf. At last, Elrond left them alone, with a final bow of his head.

"Are you sure of this, Bilbo?" Gandalf asked, bending down to stare Bilbo in the eye. "You do not need to do this."

"Let's – let's not have this argument," Bilbo sighed, patting Fíli's arm as the dwarf opened his mouth. "It's been a long – morning? Afternoon? I don't even know anymore."

"Very well," sighed the wizard. "For now, Bilbo, I strongly advise that you put the ring away. Somewhere safe, until we leave Rivendell."

"Bilbo," Frodo interjected, grabbing Bilbo's wrists and pulling him out of his seat, forcing him to look into his eyes. He did not look like an adult at all – he looked like the frightened little boy that Bilbo had adopted twenty years before. "Please, Bilbo, don't. Don't do it, there's no shame in passing the quest over, you have carried the ring for years. Please, don't do this, don't go-"

"I have to, my dear boy," Bilbo said, trying to put a hand on Frodo's cheek, but the young hobbit pulled away. He shook his head and backed away, two steps, three steps, and then he ran. Before Bilbo could say a word, Fíli followed, giving only a glare of betrayal to Bilbo as a means of goodbye.

"Fíli!" he called, his voice breaking. "Frodo, Fíli-"

"Let him go," Dís murmured, her eyes still on the floor. She took his hand "Let him go, Bilbo."

Guilt and shame broiled along with the fear and doubt in his stomach, and he stared desperately at Gandalf – the only one who would meet his eyes. "Tell me you understand," he begged. "You must know why I, why I..."

"We know," Kíli said hoarsely, wrapping his arms around Bilbo from behind and burying his face into the hobbit's shoulder. "We know, and Frodo and Fíli know, but – but – we don't, we can't – we can't _like_ it, you cannot expect us, expect us to just jump for joy and… They need space."

Closing his eyes, Bilbo wrapped his arms around Kíli's and wished that he would never have to let go. He heard Dís sniff, heard Gandalf sit back down, and he squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

In the back of his mind, a cold voice was laughing.

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and that no typos escaped my weary eyes. Please let me know what you thought – there are only four more days of advent left, so I've nearly done it!**


	20. Chapter 20: Those We Leave Behind

**Hey there! I'm actually on time tonight – yippee! I'll admit, I never thought I'd make it twenty chapter in twenty days, but here we are. Please forgive any typos made by my tired fingers, I hope you'll like this chapter.**

 **Chapter Twenty: Those We Leave Behind**

A pair of deep, blue eyes watched Bilbo, Kíli and Dís leave the porch, their feet scuffing against the ground. The eyes narrowed, and their owner's fingers tightened around the branches of the tree she perched in. She shifted without making a sound, and watched a pair of young hobbits dive from the cover of the bushes and scurry across the porch, their heads bowed in frantic discussion. When they had gone, she dropped to the forest floor below, as soft and quick as a shadow.

Nelly straightened up, and dusted off her dress. Something had to be done. Bilbo Baggins would not take the ring.

Not this time.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon by the time Bilbo found Fíli - or rather by the time Fíli allowed himself to be found. He was sitting on the edge of a small bridge, his bare feet skimming the water below. His eyes were fixed on the flowing water, and he did not move them when Bilbo approached.

"Can I sit with you?" Bilbo asked quietly.

Fíli nodded, once.

Heart aching, Bilbo sat down, and let his own legs dangle over the edge of the bridge. His feet did not reach the water. "Where's Frodo?"

The dwarf shrugged, and then sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I'm not sure. He left me a while ago. Wanted to be alone. I couldn't argue with that. He won't be far."

Bilbo closed his eyes and hung his head. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. "Fíli, I understand why you're upset. I understand why you are angry."

"Do you?" Fíli said, his voice deceptively mild.

"Yes, and I am sorry. Such a quest as this – it's no there and back again, no treasure hunt. And when, when I go, that will cause you pain, and worry. But at the end of the day, I'm just one little hobbit who got swept off the path –"

Fíli turned, staring incredulously at him. "You think I am merely sad because you are taking on the quest? Do you think me that naïve?"

Bilbo blinked, and started to stammer. "No, well, I – I didn't mean – no-"

"You are not _thinking_ ," Fíli said, gripping Bilbo's wrist. There was such deep sorrow in his eyes, such fear, that Bilbo could hardly stand to see it, but he could not look away. "I have known the sacrifice of the soldier since I was a child. I learnt it when I was five years old, and my father was slain by orcs when he tried to welcome Thorin home. I know that there is sometimes no choice but to leave the ones you love, and that such sacrifices should be viewed with honour, and not anger. I would not hinder you from this quest, or walk away like a child simply because it upsets me. But you've chosen a path that will sunder us, and that is harder to bear."

It felt as though shards of ice had been tipped into Bilbo's stomach, sharp as razors and colder than death. "What are you talking about?"

"Kíli will go with you," Fíli murmured, holding tighter onto Bilbo. There were tears in his eyes, and in his voice, and Bilbo felt his own heart breaking further. "And there will be no 'if's, 'how's, or 'but's. Should you leave him behind he would follow you by stealth 'til the ends of the earth. And so would I, Bilbo, I would follow you until my feet bled and all the strength was gone from my body, if I could. But – I can't. If there is to be war, if the mountain is in danger, both heirs to the throne cannot go on a journey to Mordor. Not on a quest like this. One of us _must_ return to Erebor."

Horror struck Bilbo in the throat at the thought of his boys separated, at the thought of either of them journeying to Mordor when they could stay safe in Rivendell, or even journey to Erebor Mountain. Even in times of war, the mountain would be safer than Mordor, especially with Thorin and his army to protect them. He shook his head, and tried to clear the lump from his throat.

"I would have you both in the mountain," he said, sifting Fíli's grip so that he could hold the young dwarf's hand. "Or I would have to stay here, stay safe. I do not want either of you to come with me." The words felt painful to say, because he did want them with him. He never wanted to part from his sons, ever, but he would sooner do that than see them in peril.

"But that is not going to happen," said Fíli, bowing his head. "You know it won't. Kíli will go with you. And I – I _have_ to go home. I must protect our people. If we deem two lives greater than the lives of thousands, we have no right to rule. Even, even if the value is such in our hearts. So, so, I will not be able to protect my brother, and I will not be able to protect my father, and I may lose you both."

At this, Fíli squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his head against Bilbo's chest. Bilbo could feel the lad shaking, feel his breath come quick and uneven. Swallowing, Bilbo wrapped his arms around Fíli and tugged him gently into a more comfortable position, resting the prince's head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, my dear, dear Fíli. I – I did not think – I didn't…" Bilbo sighed, and pressed his forehead into Fíli's hair. "This is not a position I ever wanted to put you in."

He felt Fíli's body heave as he took a deep breath. "I am sorry for walking away as I did. It was not very mature, or courteous. But when I realised what my duty would have me do, when I realised that I would have to surrender the care of you and Kíli to others…"

Shaking his head, Bilbo held Fíli a little tighter. He took a deep breath of his own, and found that when he spoke, he was unashamed of the tremor in his voice. "I am so proud of you."

Fíli stiffened, and raised his head. "What?"

"I am so proud of you," Bilbo repeated with a sad smile, unable to stop himself from tucking Fíli's hair behind his ear, and squeezing the prince's forearm. "You have come so far, and suffered so much, yet you are one of the strongest, most selfless people I have ever had the honour of meeting. It is the greatest honour that I could imagine to be called your father."

Fíli's eyes filled with tears, and then he threw his arms around Bilbo and hugged him so hard that the hobbit feared for his ribs. Someday soon, one of his dwarves would break him.

And chances were that he would not care about breaking then, either.

* * *

Telling the others of the dealings of the council did nothing to comfort Dís. Their horror, their fury and even their confusion just drummed home the reality of what was going on.

She had shut down all possibilities of discussion for the day – they were to wait at least until the morning before they made any more decisions. She said it was to allow them room to think. She knew that few among them would have the strength to think clearly.

At dusk, her aching feet seemed to be trying to compete with the pain in her heart as they dragged her towards the room she shared with Bilbo. There was a horrid emptiness in her stomach, that would not disappear no matter how tightly she was held.

She wanted to protect her son and her husband on the path to Mordor. She wanted to protect her older son on the path to Erebor. And she knew that she had to choose.

Bilbo wanted her to go back to the mountain, or to stay here – and of course he did. Bilbo wanted everyone to be safe, but he saw his own safety as optional. It was one of the reasons that she ought to go with him. He needed someone there to watch his back when it did not obviously need watching. And Kíli was her baby. She had already lost him once, and if there was anything at all she could do to stop that from happening again, she would do it.

But she had almost lost Fíli, too, and he had been injured so badly, so recently, he was more vulnerable. He needed her too. She also had Frodo to think about – the boy clung to her like a mother, and she could not turn her back on him, either.

In her mind, the decision had been made, and as much as she had listened only to her own counsel, it felt as if she had no choice. Her arms wound tighter around her body, and she pushed open the bedroom door with her shoulder.

It was dark – the curtains were draped over the windows.

She was Dís, daughter of Una, and of Thráin, son of Thrór. Daughter of sacrifice, granddaughter of suffering. Now, more than ever, she could not help but wonder if the blood that ran through her veins, the blood of Durin himself, was nothing more than a curse.

She hated the world for making her choose. She loathed destiny for tearing her sons apart again, for tearing them from her. She despised fate for taking her first husband, and then dragging her second away. She even reviled her father, for teaching her that princesses could not be weak. For teaching her that princesses could not cry unless someone was dead or dying.

It was scarce five o'clock, but Dís changed into a nightgown and sat on the bed, raising her knees up to her chin like a child. She stared at a small crack on the wall, an imperfection that the elves had missed. Her eyes closed, but sleep would not come and rescue her.

Instead, thoughts of every tale of Mordor that she had ever heard swam before her eyes. She imagined her little Kíli and her Bilbo climbing over rocks as sharp as razors, and dodging fires that leapt from the ground. Horrors worse than orcs, worse than Black Riders…

Her stomach churned and she pulled herself in tighter.

 _Come now,_ she chided herself. _You are stronger than this. You cannot fail, you cannot crumble. You don't have that right. You have work to do._

The soft swish of the door opening brought her gaze up to fall on Bilbo. He was silhouetted against the light from the hall, but he quickly bustled in, and shut the light out behind him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I did not realise you were-"

"I wasn't sleeping," she interrupted quietly. "Did you find the boys?"

He nodded, and strode across the room with a bowed head. "Aye. They aren't happy, either of them. Fíli understands better than Frodo does. Frodo thinks he's all grown up now that he's of age, but he has so much to learn. And Dís – you know I am sorry, don't you? You know that I don't _want_ to go to Mordor and-"

"Yes," she said, placing a hand on his knee. "I know. I understand. And I am proud of you. But it still hurts, Bilbo."

"I know," he murmured miserably. "This truly has been a terrible month, and not at all the sort of commotion I'd hoped to stir with Frodo's party."

Despite herself, Dís had to smile. "No, I do not think anyone quite expected this."

"We're missing dinner."

"Trust a hobbit – I'm fine. I'm just not hungry."

She closed her eyes, and heard Bilbo's fingers tap softly against the bedframe. He took several intakes of breath as if he was about to speak, and she counted five before any words actually emerged. "Amrâlimê…" Then he fell silent again. Khuzdul always sounded a little odd from the mouths of the hobbits, but it was something that she found endearing. It had never failed to make her smile, to hear Bilbo call her his love. Never until today. Today it just squeezed vinegar into an open wound.

"I am simply tired," she said at last. "Tired, and weary of sacrificing. But I shall endure."

"I have no doubt you shall." Bilbo's voice was remarkably calm. "But you know that in the meantime it is alright to let down your burden?"

Dís opened her eyes and frowned. "Not all burdens can rest."

"But all hearts can," protested Bilbo, taking her hands. He started. "You're so cold…"

She shrugged, but her fingers wrapped around Bilbo's much warmer ones.

"Dís," he murmured, tears sparkling over his deep eyes. "I think you need to cry."

As if the suggestion had set them free, tears sprang to Dís' own eyes, and made it past her eyelashes. She closed her eyes and felt herself shake, but then she felt Bilbo's arms wrap around her, and her shakes grew to sobs. She clung to the hobbit that she loved so much, and she cried.

And as her hands wound into his hair, she knew that no number of tears would wash away her heart's stuttering belief that one of them would not be coming home.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! I know that not much seems to have changed, but scenes have been moved here to allow for better coming chapters :D Please do let me know what you think, I love hearing about it!**


	21. Chapter 21: The Best Laid Plans

**Yo! This one was almost up on time tomorrow, but I fell asleep in bed before I could update, and thought that it would be better to wait until I could read without snoozing to polish it off, haha! As such, I'll also upload Chapter Twenty-Two today! Please forgive any typos that escaped the net, and enjoy the chapters!**

 **Chapter Twenty-One: The Best Laid Plans**

Kíli was not surprised that the youngest members of his family reacted to the news with fury. He was angry too, of course, but not at Bilbo. It was not fair that their homes were under threat, nor that he and his father were soon to trek to the most dangerous place in the world on a fool's errand.

It was not fair that he would be separated from his brother.

This was what Kíli struggled with the most, and as such he was staunchly ignoring it. He understood. He had understood even before Fíli tearfully explained it to him. Sacrifice. And, a part of Kíli was glad of it. If he fell, if Bilbo fell – if they failed – his heart would survive in Fíli, sheltered in the mountain. And _if_ they failed, Fíli would hold Erebor strong until hope had long withered and died, and the stubborn lives of the dwarves were finally quenched.

Of course, the rest of Kíli wanted to scream and cry, and pound his fists into the floor like a child. The thought of leaving Rivendell and never seeing his brother again was more painful than any battle-wound or torture strike he had ever felt.

The thought of leaving the rest of his family behind was almost as hard.

Which was why he understood when he and Fíli ran into the younger dwobbits accosting Bilbo and Dís before breakfast, the day after the council. Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Nelly, Vinca, Bróin and Bofin. They stood like a wall, arm to arm with faces of stone, and Nelly was taking the lead with her usual ferocity.

"It does not make _sense_ for you to go, Bilbo! It would be better for someone more agile and less important to go, like us! We've trained in the mountain for years! We can fight better than you, sneak better than you, and we're much less valuable to the city and the Shire. If you and Kíli return to the mountain, the people will be heartened. If there's to be war, they need their royal family, intact. It's important. You need to be there. You're so much more important than we are, you must see it?"

"I certainly do not," said Bilbo sternly, though his face was gentle. "I understand your logic, Nelly, but it is flawed. I'm not weak or helpless yet, and your lives are infinitely more important than that of an ageing hobbit, believe me. The people would agree with me. And it isn't about that, in any case. You are too young. You must stay here. When it is safer, you can return to the mountain or the Shire, whichever you prefer."

"You cannot just tell us what to do as if we're little children!" she protested, but Bilbo raised his eyebrows and put his hand on his hips. That was never a good sign for his opponent.

"Oh, can't I? Because last I checked, none of you were deemed old enough to travel without adult supervision. Moreover, you said it yourself. I am part of the royal family, so if you will not listen to me as your uncle, I will stand as your lord and order you not to push the matter further. _None_ of you will be going to Mordor."

Fíli let out a low whistle, and Kíli nodded slightly. He had never seen Bilbo pull rank like that before, and from the bright purple of her face, neither had Nelly. Frodo's eyes fell on Kíli, and bored into him beseechingly.

"Kíli, you must understand where we're coming from!" he said. "Talk some sense into him, please."

"I understand, but you're not coming."

For the second time in a matter of weeks, Frodo sent him a betrayed glare and Kíli's stomach churned. This time, however, he did not doubt his actions.

"I mean it. You're little more than children, even you, and there's no way that you could be allowed to go to Mordor. Bilbo is right – that is the end of it." Kíli sighed, and felt his shoulders slump. "But to tell you the truth, I don't like it either."

"Come," Fíli said, stepping forward. "Come now, let's go and eat. This was never going to be easy, and it has already been decided that this is Bilbo's burden. There's no changing that now. I'm sure we'll all feel a little better with some hot food in our stomachs."

Kíli was not surprised that his brother's calm voice diffused the situation. Fíli had ever been the peacekeeper, and lost his temper far less quickly than Kíli did.

After breakfast, they slowly made their way to the Hall of Fire. It was empty, and the fire burnt low in the grate.

There were no elves present. Only the folk of Erebor. Their group numbered less than half of the seats in the hall, but Frodo and his cousins forsook chairs, choosing instead to sit on the floor and tighten the circle.

"So," Bilbo cleared his throat and glanced around. Kíli saw his eyes flicker over Bragi, Soren and Ehren to Gimli and Ori, then over to Bofur and Bifur, to their nephews. To Fíli and Dís, and Frodo and the dwobbits. And to the door. "So, I believe the question is, who is coming to Mordor?"

"I will go," said Gimli at once, and Kíli glanced quickly at Bilbo. Gimli was not a child, no, but Kíli was not sure he felt comfortable with his younger cousin partaking in such a quest. He was more than capable, of course, and far more mature than Frodo and the others. Fíli had been younger on the quest for Erebor! But secretly, Kíli still thought that he and his brother had been too young for the quest, and the sufferings it dealt them. He did not want Gimli to feel the same.

To his relief, the hobbit seemed to be thinking along the same lines as he was. "That is very kind of you, Gimli, but I would truly rather you did not. You are a great warrior, and your skills will be of more use at Erebor, I am sure. You are needed there, my lad."

Gimli narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth, but then he paused, and closed it again. Then, he gave a nod. "Very well. If that is what you deem best. How many are you taking?"

"Lord Elrond suggested a party of nine," Bilbo explained. "Nine walkers to counter the nine riders, with representatives of all the free people. Aragorn and Boromir will go for the men, and Glorfindel and Legolas have both volunteered. For my part, it heartens me that they will. Gandalf, too, is to join us. That leaves myself, and Kíli, and two spaces unfilled."

"I am going," said Bragi, as casually as if he was announcing a trip to the market. Kíli noticed Soren glance at Bragi in alarm, his grey eyes widening.

"Are you sure?" Kíli asked, his eye on the younger dwarf. Feeling the prince's gaze, Soren met his eyes and winked, though he shifted so that his shoulder was brushing Bragi's.

"Aye," Bragi said, prodding Soren in the ribs. The gesture was so small Kíli was sure that he was the only one to have seen it. "I swore an oath to protect you, and if you're going to Mordor, I will follow."

"We would never ask you to do that, Bragi," Bilbo said immediately, before even Kíli could respond. "Your oath does not cover such circumstances, and we could never, ever order you into such a mission."

Bragi smiled softly. "Aye, I know. That's why I'm coming."

Kíli glanced down at the ground, but it was only a moment before he raised his eyes to meet Bragi's. He put his hand over his heart and bowed his head, and Bragi mirrored his movements.

"By the same logic, I'll be returning to Erebor, it seems." Soren nodded at Fíli, then at Kíli. "A temporary brother swap, then."

"Be careful with mine, Bragi," warned Fíli. "I want him back."

"Meh." Bragi shrugged his shoulders. "I'll do my best, but you can keep that one, if you like."

Soren stuck out his tongue.

"And you say we're children," muttered Nelly. But when Kíli caught her eye, she could not hide her slight smile.

Bilbo sighed. "Well, I'm glad you're all taking this seriously."

As Bilbo spoke, a slight movement caught Kíli's eye, and he looked back at Paladin's second daughter. Nelly was looking at Nori, her eyebrows raised in sorrow, and her lips pursed and white. Nori met her gaze and raised his eyebrows. Her eyes closed, tightly, for just a moment. Nori grinned for the span of a heartbeat.

"Ai'ght," he said, looking from Nelly to Bilbo. "I'll be number nine, then Bilbo."

"What?" Bofur frowned, startled upright from where he leant back in his seat. "That leaves no room for me."

"Aye, well…" Nori shrugged. "Who's going to be more handy, the tinkerer or the spymaster?" Nori's face softened as Bofur glared. "'sides, you've got Bombur's bairns to think about.

"Or, if you are serious about going, it could become a group of ten," Dis said softly. "The numbering was only symbolic, and while a large group is not advisable, I doubt adding another one person will tip the scale out of favour."

Bofur glanced at his nephews, and Kíli followed his gaze. Bofin was rather green around the gills, and avoided his uncle's eyes, but Bróin folded his arms and nodded. There was not the same sense of speechless conversation as there was between Nelly and Nori, but the bond was just as strong, and Kíli's heart did not know whether to sink or soar.

Bofur cleared his throat. "Well, it's settled then. Ten companions. We shall be the Company of Bilbo Baggins."

Despite his grief, the distaste on Bilbo's face made Kíli smile.

"Actually," his father said, "Lord Elrond declared that we would be the Fellowship of the Ring."

Bofur hummed, and stroked his chin. "Aye… That does have a better ring to it."

Bofin and Bróin groaned, for once in unison. "Uncle…"

Grinning slightly, Nori leant back in his seat. "So it is settled. Nine walkers for the nine riders, and a spare," said Nori, nodding at Bofur.

"Wait, walkers?" Bofur paused. "Who said anything about walking? Surely we'll take the wolves?"

Kíli had not thought of that. He looked down, but his little wolven shadow was not there. He had to admit, the idea of walking all the way to Mordor was not a pleasant one – and you could not draw comfort from cuddling your feet when nights grew cold and dark.

"There's plenty of time to discuss the details," Ori said sombrely. "We can't go anywhere until the scouts get back, and that will take at least two weeks. We have time to plan, and decide which options shall be best. And that is something that we all can help with."

Indeed, it was nigh on two weeks before the scouts returned. In that time, they discussed much amongst themselves, exploring options and hypotheticals and paths until their mouths were dry, but Kíli knew that the greater details would be hammered out in the week-long series of meetings at November's end. They would be leaving in December, it seemed. Not his favourite time for travelling, but it could be far worse.

Thus far, Kíli was holding onto his hope. It was faint, and struggling to escape him, but the scouts returned on time, with as favourable reports as could be hoped for, and he had weeks, days, left with his brother. And they had not just been talking about the 'getting there.' They had discussed the 'back again' too, something he thought was very important.

When he woke on the Monday of the last week of November, Kíli had to cling to hope with both hands. He did not particularly want to get out of bed, to know all the details of what was to come. He would rather just move his feet where Gandalf told him to. But he had learnt a long time ago that it was not a particularly useful way to deal with things, and that it could become dangerous. He could not always ignore the things he did not like.

As such, he dragged himself out of bed, and woke his brother, before slumping down the hall for breakfast. To his surprise, he saw a familiar sight – several young dwobbits in a line, pleading with Bilbo and Dís. Rubbing his eyes and praying that they were not trying to get in on the quest again, Kíli wandered over.

It was not all of the younger ones, this time. Only Frodo, Sam, Merry, Pippin, Nelly and Bróin. And they did not look angry – on the contrary, they looked sorrowful, pleading, and there were piles of packs behind them. Bofin was glowering at them from across the hall, and Vinca was quite calmly sipping at a cup of tea.

Shaking her weary head, Dís spoke. "You shall have a chance to explore Rivendell when the fellowship departs – why do you want to go now?"

"Go where?" Kíli asked, frowning slightly. Why would they want to go anywhere if they had only a week left to spend with one another?

"We want to go camping," said Nelly, in an oddly soft voice. When she met Kíli's eyes the look broke his heart. "We don't want to be around for this. You're all to hole up for days and days talking about how you're leaving us for an awful quest, and there's nothing we can do. We've given all the advice we have, but you know more than us. There's nothing else we can do to help, nothing at all. If we can't go with you, let us go to the Ice Glade. We'll return in time to see you off, I promise."

"I'm not sure," sighed Bilbo, rubbing his chin.

Kíli stared at Frodo. The young hobbit looked like the sky was crashing down onto his shoulders – he looked the way Kíli had when he found out that Battle of the Five armies was going to happen, that he would be caught up in it, that there was nothing he could do to stop it. Kíli's heart tugged in two directions – he wanted to spend as much time as he could with the little ones, if this was to be the last – in case anything happened to him. But if it were him in their shoes, he would not want to be around, either.

After a while, he asked, "What's the Ice Glade?"

"It's a little pool at Aragorn told us about," said Merry, his smile lacking its usual spark when he shot it at Kíli. "Right at the eastern end of the valley. Still within Rivendell, it's still safe."

"I can't be here," murmured Frodo, and Kíli swallowed. "I cannot stay, watching you prepare to go where I can't follow. Let us do _something._ Busy ourselves. Please, Bilbo."

Dís sighed, taking Frodo's hands and squeezing them. "I think it's a good idea. Keep your minds busy – but not if you have any notion of leaving this valley, do you understand?"

Looking up with hopeful eyes, they all nodded eagerly, despite the lingering sorrow on their faces.

"I suppose I agree…" Bilbo sighed. "But be sure to be back before we leave, alright? We wouldn't want to delay such a quest, after all."

The goodbyes felt almost like a practise round. As they all hugged, and bade each other farewell, Kíli was sure he was not the only one to wonder how awful it would feel to do it again in a week. Do have so little an idea of when they would meet again. Frodo and Merry, in particular, hugged Kíli very tightly. But he smiled, and ruffled their hair.

"It's not like this is a proper goodbye, after all," he said. "It's a 'see you in a week!'"

When they left, Kíli remained on the little bridge with his brother, watching five hobbits and a dwarf hike off into the beautiful valley of Imladris. They lingered long after the others had left for lunch.

"They'll be alright," Fíli said, wrapping his arm around Kíli's shoulders as they watched Pippin disappear, with one last look back. "Though I wish we were with them. By Mahal, I wish we were."

"Me too," said Kíli, a lump building in his throat.

All of a sudden, Fíli twisted, seizing Kíli by the shoulders and staring at him with a wild fire in his eyes. "Listen to me now, Kíli, you come back. You go to that _damned_ mountain and you throw that _cursed_ thing into it, and then you come back home. Don't you _dare_ die on me, alright? Don't you dare."

Kíli gave a half-strangled laugh and he crashed against his brother's chest. "I'll do my best."

Fíli's arms wrapped around him and he clung back like a child being carried over a storming river. "Don't you leave me," Fíli whispered. "Not forever."

Kíli wanted to comfort his brother, to scoff and say he was being silly, but he could not. Not when things were becoming so very, terrifyingly, real.

"As long as you do the same," he choked, closing his eyes and resting his chin on his brother's shoulder. "Never, ever do a Weathertop again."

Fíli gave a watery laugh. "I'll do my best."

* * *

The solitary hooves of his little mountain pony clattered against the rock at the base of the Misty Mountains. The High Pass was Glóin's path of choice – at least he was aiming for it. It was the fastest way to Rivendell – a path he had loathed and feared for decades, but a path that he would take nonetheless. He had a message to deliver. And his son was on the other side of these mountains.

Slowly, they began to climb, the pony's breath misting faster and faster against the cool air. Glóin rather wished that an eagle would come and pluck him and his pony into the sky to save him time. That was how they had got from the goblin tunnels to the Carrock so quickly on the quest. But no. The uphill journey would be too much to ask.

As sinking mist began to censor his view of the path behind him, Glóin let out a low whistle. Almost immediately, a large, grey wolf loped out from behind a nearby boulder, her proud eyes meeting his.

"Any trouble?" he grunted.

Lani gave a slow movement like the shake of a head, and he huffed in agreement.

"Aye, I've seen no sign of anything either. Not even a bird. It's eerie."

Lani blinked at him, and then overtook, trotting up the path. He sighed. It was rather lonely to travel with only animals as companions. He could not understand why Beorn liked it so much.

But it was a necessary sacrifice. It was custom of Erebor to send two or three at any time to take a message, and Thorin feared that enemies may know this.

"Alone, you may pass as less official. Look more like a wandering traveller. The wolf will watch your back with all the skill and love that another of us would, I deem." Those had been his words. And Glóin agreed. He was not afraid to walk the world alone.

But it was not his favourite way to travel, nor did he much fancy the garb he had decided to clad himself in. He much preferred to dress colourfully, with a ring or six, and a beard of sparkling jewels, but unfortunately that did not lend itself to subtle travel. He dressed more regally for the quest, and he was convinced that the brown clothing and greying of his beard made him look significantly older than he was.

Hours crawled by as they made their slow way up the hill, but as dusk began to paint the skies, Lani's ears pricked up. She paused, her foot held aloft, and sniffed at the air.

"Easy, Basil," Glóin warned, pulling the pony to a halt when he started to overtake her.

In that moment, she dove into a nearby bush. Glóin grabbed his axe, but there was no sound of a struggle. Instead, she returned with a bundle of black rags carried gingerly in her mouth. An odd buzzing sound met his ears, and Glóin frowned. Then, Lani dropped her bundle, and a swarm of carrion flies flocked into the air. Old bones and sinew and feathers fell apart on the floor, but Glóin had an awful feeling that he knew what lay before him.

A raven of Erebor. The dead creature was the right size, and what remained of the beak seemed the correct shape. But more telling was the fact that the wolf had dragged it from the bushes in the first place. The wolves of Erebor were well fed, and did not seek out carrion. They were also focused, and had an eerily humane intelligence. Glóin was sure that Lani knew exactly what they were doing.

As he glanced at her, she licked a nearby tree, as if trying to remove the taste from her mouth. Then, she turned her eyes to Glóin.

"I expect you suppose I should rummage in the bushes too?" he muttered, but he dismounted anyway, and strode to the place where she had disappeared, and stuck his head into the bush. He could hardly see anything. The branches were thick, and dense at the top, though it looked as though there was more space below. He doubted any creature that had fallen onto the bush would end up at the bottom, so the bird must have either hopped underneath the brush to die, or had been disposed of.

Grimacing, he removed his glove and began to pat around the ground, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. Almost immediately, his fingers fell on a crumpled ring of metal. He frowned, and grabbed at it, drawing out his hand. When he saw what it was, he nodded at Lani.

"Thank you. Thorin was right."

She whined.

In his hand was a leather cannister, bound with rings of beaten gold. It was unmistakeable, though the leather was ripped, and hung from the dented rings. It had come from Erebor, or been returning there, with a message from or for the king. There was nothing inside.

Somewhere nearby, a crow squawked, and Glóin's hand shot to his axe. He looked Lani dead in the eyes. "You find anything else like that and you tell me, lass."

She nodded, and began to trot up the hill again.

"You're right," he sighed. "Time to move on."

He remounted, tucked the leather casing into his saddlebag, and flicked once at the reins. The steady sound of Basil's footprints returned, and now Glóin thought that they were very loud. He dug his heels in slightly, urging the pony to go faster. The sooner they got to Rivendell, the better, he was sure.

He was sure that they were being watched.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I have a feeling Glóin may be a tiny, wee bit late if he makes it to Rivendell, what do you think? ;)**


	22. Chapter 22: The Vanishing Campers

**Please forgive any of my typos, I hope you'll like this one!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Two: The Vanishing Campers**

Sighing heavily, Gimli shuffled out of Rivendell's airy council room and wished that he would never have to enter it again. For the third day in a row, he had entered at dawn, felt rather useless amongst doom-laden discussions, and left only when dusk was falling. He was starting to wish that he had gone with Bróin and Frodo and the others. After all, Gimli would not be walking to Mordor. He would be returning to Erebor instead.

To protect his king. And maybe to fight in a war. Gimli was not afraid of battle – in fact, cutting some orc throats would make him feel much better.

But Gimli was terrified of arriving too late. Here he had listened and learnt, and been about as useful as a hair curler to a hobbit. His dreams were plagued by equal helplessness on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain, of returning to Erebor and finding that some evil with the power of Smaug had broken in and decimated his home.

Every night, the fireplace stole his gaze, and his mind wandered far to the east. It wondered what would happen if they arrived at a mountain already besieged. How could they help that, in a party as small as theirs? What if something happened to the food supplies, and their people began to starve?

There were so many 'if's, and none that he could change, and Gimli was tired of it.

All around him, people were moving in different directions – most towards the hall where Elrond had promised them supper. But when Gimli paused by a nearby balcony, Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas lingered too.

"Are you alright?" asked Aragorn, staring down at him with raised eyebrows. "You seem rather downhearted."

"And you seem rather chipper," Gimli retorted, raising his own brows in response, "given that we just spent two hours discussing what to do in the event that the entire fellowship is slaughtered."

Boromir clamped his hand down hard on Gimli's shoulder. "What we need is ale, I think. Fortify the blood after such talk."

His worry scurrying towards the back of his mind, Gimli grinned. "Aye, I like the way you're thinking, laddie."

"Ale is not a popular beverage among the elves," said Aragorn lightly, and Gimli sighed.

"I know. I've missed it sorely ever since leaving the Shire. Bilbo has a barrel of Barliman's Best tucked away in the cellar."

Aragorn's eyes raised higher, but now it was a look of great approval. "Does he indeed? That is a good brew, to be sure. I did not know that Barliman Butterbur sold by the barrel?"

"He doesn't," said Gimli, rather smugly. "But Bilbo always tells such good stories and brings such company to the Prancing Pony that he often makes an exception."

"Alas, it does not help us here," sighed Boromir, a twinkle in his eye. Still, there were more lines than usual on his forehead, and his eyes were shadowed by dark rings. It was then that Gimli noticed the tight edge in Aragorn's smile, and the utter stillness of Legolas, as he stared into the distance.

Although, noted Gimli, the latter could just be an elf thing.

"No, but I can," said Aragorn. He gave a wry smile and began to walk in the opposite direction from the crowd. "I know where Lord Elrond keeps what ale he has – I doubt he will begrudge us a mug or two."0

Just a few minutes later, Gimli was much more content. He had a mug of ale in each hand – not as good a brew as could be found in the Shire or the Lonely Mountain, but a decent one nevertheless – and he was sitting on a plain, stone balcony that overlooked the eastern side of the valley. Though winter was drawing ever nearer, it was pleasantly warm, and the company was fairly good.

For almost an hour, Gimli shared stories of easier times and adventures past with Aragorn and Boromir, and the ale drew a much of his worry from his heart.

But Legolas had hardly moved. Though he had accompanied them, he denied any drink, and had been staring with slightly narrowed eyes at a single spot for over an hour. Finally, Gimli had had enough.

"Say, Legolas," he said, finally drawing the elf's gaze from the horizon. "What're you looking at? You've not moved for an hour."

"What I cannot see," said Legolas, a brief smile twitching across his face at Gimli's look of confusion. "It may well be nothing."

"Yet you do not think it so," frowned Aragorn, standing up from where he had slouched against the balcony. Boromir's eyes sharpened, and focused on the elf. None had yet drunk enough to lose their judgement.

"Three nights ago, I saw smoke rising from a glade in the eastern valley, from the cooking fire of the young hobbits, I guessed. I caught glimpse of it the following morning, yet I could see nothing that evening, nor the next day – today. There is no sign of a fire, or smoke, and perhaps it may be only the foreshadowing of fear from the dangers we will face, but there is a shadow growing over my heart."

"You think they're in trouble?" said Gimli, standing up himself. He had no time for pretty words now, not if the young ones were in danger. Why, they were little more than children…

"I do not know," said Legolas. "It could be that now they cook beneath the trees, or chose not to light a fire at all. And evil cannot yet penetrate this valley."

"They are not fools," added Aragorn. "There is no reason for them not to be safe."

Gimli sighed, and stared off to where the trees were blurring into the dark.

"I'm sure they're fine," Boromir said, shoving Gimli's shoulder with a grin on his face. "Think about how angry they'd be if you showed up to check on them."

Gimli snorted. "It'd be worth the trip to annoy them so much."

After a pause, Aragorn spoke. "Then let's take it." The other three stared at him, and Aragorn shrugged. "It takes but a few hours riding to reach the Ice Pool, if we set a good pace. We could be back by dawn, scare some hobbits, put Gimli's worry to rest and have something light to think of during tomorrow's meeting."

"You know," said Boromir slowly, stroking his chin, "we may even be able to miss the council tomorrow. They are to discuss the provisions, and I believe that the hands of hobbits and elves are more than capable of such talk. They know what we need, after all."

"That is a fine point." Aragorn nodded.

"I'm in," grinned Gimli. The night was getting better and better, and he no longer felt tired in the slightest. He would get to surprise, scare, and/or mock his young cousins, and he would not have to attend another useless meeting.

Legolas, the prissy rule-stickler he was, insisted on talking to Elrond of their plan, but both elven lord and Bilbo thought it a good idea. In fact, Bilbo gave Gimli a weary smile, and a hug, and bade him jump out at Frodo if he could.

"The Valar know he could do with a laugh."

But despite the safety both Elrond and Bilbo advocated, Gimli ensured he had all three of his best axes stowed on his person. One was the walking axe that his father had given him, and the other two were smaller, and tucked easily into his belt.

To his relief, Boromir, Aragorn and Legolas were all also armed when they met at the stables. No one spoke of it, but with the great shadow hanging over their heads it felt ill advised to travel without them. They took only light packs, with provisions for two days just in case, thick cloaks for the cold night, and some various other bits and pieces. They would be back by the next night at the latest, after all.

All the wolves had gone with the tweens, save Luno, who was really just Kíli's glorified lap dog. Still, Gimli was happy to be reunited with his trusty little pony, Odo. The poor creature seemed a little disgruntled about setting out as night fell, but when the horses of Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir led out of the stables without complaint, Odo stomped his pride and carried Bilbo into the night with his head in the air.

It was cooler now, and the wind was crisp on his face as they rode, but Gimli liked it. It felt refreshing, and so good to be doing _something,_ even if it was unproductive.

They set an easy pace, laughing and chatting as they followed a small trail that Aragorn and his horse picked out through the trees. As the night grew deeper, they rode faster and talked less, but the silence that fell was comfortable.

It felt safe here, to ride beneath a canopy of leaves, littered with stars. Gimli may not fully trust any elf, but he trusted Bilbo, and Bilbo trusted that Elrond could protect his valley. Even as he rode, his fears for his cousins seemed folly.

It was gone midnight when Aragorn checked his horse in a little hollow, and they all dismounted. Quietly, they crept through an overgrown path on foot, leaving their steeds to graze. Gimli felt his heart beating faster and faster in his chest, but when they sprang out into a clearing, he did not see what he expected to.

There was a pond – the Ice Pool did imply something of the sort, and now he could see how it got its name. The rock beneath the water was white, giving the little lake a silver sheen, and it glittered like ice in the starlight. The grass around it was lush and soft, even against the onset of winter, and the trees formed smooth, pale pillars. It was a peaceful place, a wonderful place to stargaze and contemplate life. That he had been expecting.

He was also expecting the nearby remains of a fire, but not for the coals to be cold.

He was not expecting it to be the only sign of a camp.

"Frodo?" he called loudly. "Sam?" If the tables had been turned, and Gimli was now on the receiving end of a practical joke, those would be the two to put him out of his misery the fastest.

The soft hoot of an owl was the only reply, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Aragorn stooped to the ground by the fire, a frown on his face.

"This has not been lit in days," he murmured, his eyes scouring the ground. "And these tracks are just as old – they could have stayed here no longer than a night…"

"Then where are they?" demanded Gimli, squinting into the dark trees and seeing no sign of his cousins.

"Not far, surely," said Boromir, though his face was falling into a frown. "Perhaps they are simply exploring?"

Gimli weighed this in his mind, and then gave a heavy sigh. "I suppose… It wouldn't be unlike them."

But Legolas' eyes were fixed on the trees at the eastern side of the glade, and he walked into them without a word. He returned a few moments later, a piece of ripped, white fabric in his hand. It was smeared with blood.

Gimli's heart dropped through his boots, even as it began pumping adrenalin through his system. This could not be…

"This belongs to Pippin," said Aragorn, his voice tightening as he took the fabric in his hand. "I recognise the pattern on the seam, he showed me the other day…"

 _The hood was ripped from his head, and though Gimli had believed it impossible, he felt worse. The very first thing he saw was an orc, holding Pippin by his neck like a dog. He looked frantically around, recognising Fíli and Paladin, and seeing bound elves and a young man with a spike against his throat and –_

 _"You got the prince?" A strange, black-bearded dwarf laughed. "That's perfect!"_

 _Gimli glanced at Fíli, hoping that his cousin would do something, would have a blade hidden up his sleeve, but all he had was a scowl._

 _"Now, here's how things are going to work," the other strange dwarf declared, stalking up and down like a prison guard. "If anyone screams too loudly, one of you will be tortured – severally – and then killed. If anyone tries to escape, one of you will be tortured and then killed. For example, if this fellow here-" he pushed Paladin roughly. "Was to try and escape, we would take his little brat here-" he shook Pippin up and down, and the little hobbit squeaked. Anger rose from Gimli's stomach to his throat. "Break his little fingers and toes, beat him to within an inch of his life and then kill him in some interesting, inventive way. Got it?"_

 _In his mind, Gimli saw it – he could already hear Pippin screaming –_

Taking a deep breath, Gimli gave a sharp bark in Khuzdul, and immediately Odo jostled his way over. The pony looked highly disgruntled, but did not protest when Gimli mounted and urged him towards the trees.

"What are you doing?" Boromir stepped forward.

Gimli set his jaw and did not look back. "Finding my cousins. Might be nothing, or they might be hurt. And don't even think of trying to stop me-"

"Gimli," said Aragorn firmly, "it is too dark to track them now. Let's go at first light, I'll be able to search more clearly then."

"And dawn is but a few hours away," added Boromir. He was staring up at the sky. "We should not lose much time."

Gimli blinked, startled. "We?"

"Well, we will not let you go alone," laughed Boromir, shaking his head with a devilish grin. "Come now, Gimli, we're neither faithless nor cowards. We should go with you now if the need seemed more pressing, but chances are Pippin fell into a tree and ripped his shirt. You can't tell me that's out of character?"

Gimli mulled this over for a moment, and then shrugged. "I suppose not."

"Then let's get some sleep," said Aragorn, in a calm yet firm voice – much like the one Bilbo would use, Gimli noted.

"Not much," the dwarf said as he jumped down from his pony and scratched Odo's nose. Perhaps it was just his memories that shook him, the awful knowledge of what evil folk would bestow upon even infants if it would further their cause. It was just as likely that they had tired of the Ice Glade, and Pippin had tripped over his own feet. But when morning came, he would wait no longer. "We must be away as soon as we can see."

It was not long before daylight woke them, pouring down onto Gimli's sleeping face and jolting him into action. His fears seemed less pressing in the light. Aragorn and Boromir were right. Knowing his cousins, they were simply exploring, and making a general nuisance of themselves, the scoundrels. He felt almost foolish, to have allowed himself to get so worked up at a smudge of blood and old memories, but his mother always said to accept that a troubled past led to troubled thoughts.

"Acknowledge it, do _not_ berate it, and move on," she would say.

The four companions followed the trail of wolf prints, talking and laughing amongst themselves, until several hours had passed. It was odd – they were travelling east in as straight a line as they could make, and as time went on they seemed no closer to reaching their friends. The tracks were old, days old, and by noon the hunters were cantering, urging their steeds to reach the fastest sustainable pace.

The trees before them thinned and thinned, until Aragorn led them through a ford in the river with a soft moan, and halted on the other side. His eyes were narrow with worry and confusion, and staring at the horizon. Legolas was shading his eyes, and Boromir's jaw was tight.

Gimli's heart was pounding in his chest, as Odo carried him across the eastern border of Rivendell. For he knew what that river was. What line they had just crossed. "They're… they're gone."

"Where?" breathed Aragorn, his brow creased.

Boromir shook his head. "Why?"

Legolas was the one to wield the word that chilled Gimli's blood. "Orcs."

"Orcs!" he cried, wheeling around. "What the blazes do you mean orcs, they were supposed to be safe!"

"Orcs," Legolas repeated, pointing at an oddly shaped rock in the distance. "There are two orc corpses yonder, and tracks all around here. Trying to enter Rivendell, no doubt, though I cannot understand how they could breach the defences-"

"Did they take them?" Gimli rounded on Aragorn, desperate for the ranger's reading of the dirt, and terrified of it in equal measure. "Did orcs take my cousins?"

Another image from long ago flashed before his eyes – little Pippin, bound and chained by orcs. Not again, that could not happen again.

Aragorn shook his head slowly. "That does not make sense. They would have walked from the valley into their own doom willingly, for there were no signs of orcs within the valley. I cannot fathom that they could cross the river. There are orc prints here, and wolf tracks from our friends, but they are confused. I cannot tell who was here when."

Gimli took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and growled. "Right. Right." Then he flicked the reins, and set Odo on a brisk trot.

"Gimli-" began Boromir, but the dwarf was having none of it.

"I'm going to find those damn rascals, and skin any orc or man or elf that might've hurt them. And, if it turns out the idiots left of their own volition, I'll skin them."

"Not literally, I hope," muttered Boromir. "And I was hoping for another ale tonight. But let's go. The sooner we find them the better."

"Someone should go back," said Legolas, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Alert Lord Elrond."

Aragorn pursed his lips. "They cannot be far. I suggest we ride hard now, and if we have found nothing by dusk, someone ought to return. But still this may be more innocent than it seems, and the council have more pressing matters than six wayward children. That is not an insult, Gimli."

"I know." The dwarf grinned darkly. "Let's hunt some dwobbits."

* * *

When Bilbo retired from the fourth day of talks, he had to admit that his concern was growing. He had expected that Gimli would have returned by now, with Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir in tow. But they had not arrived, even for dinner.

Too tired even for the Hall of Fire, Bilbo and Dís made their way to their room, and went to bed. But try as he might, Bilbo could not sleep. He tossed and turned and sighed and snarled, until finally he sat up in bed. At this rate, he would wake Dís.

A sudden thought came to his mind, and he paused. It would not hurt, to have a little peek at his pre- his ring. Just for a minute. After all, he had to build up his strength, and what better way than practise?

He slid out of bed and grappled for the large chest beneath the bed, but as his hands touched the top, they fell on paper. Frowning, he pulled out a folded piece of parchment with Frodo's writing on. Then, he smiled.

Frodo had a habit of writing happy poems, messages or inspirational sayings on bits of scrap paper, and leaving them around the places for people to find. So far, Bilbo's favourite had been the 'always look on the bright side of life' that had been left in the bucket that was tucked in his back cupboard in Erebor, and reserved for vomiting children.

But this one took the cake, though Frodo surely could not have known it would. A lullaby for a sleepless night. Bilbo read the simple verse over and over, and then smiled, and got back into bed. He tucked the paper beneath his pillow, wrapped his arms around his wife and closed his eyes.

And had the best night of sleep he would have for months.

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Again, it's slightly less altered, so I hope it was not too repetitive for those of you so patiently re-reading. Please do let me know what you think, and I will endeavour to see you tomorrow. Until then, take care!**


	23. Chapter 23: Revelations

**Yo! I hope you enjoy this chapter :D I stayed up far too late to finish it for someone who has to work on Christmas eve, so apologies for any pesky typos that escaped my grasp.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Three: Revelations**

 _Humming softly, Bilbo rocked his little nephew back and forth on his hip. It was just typical that Frodo would fall prey to a cold when the weather was turning towards spring. The boy had adapted incredibly well to life in Erebor – in fact he seemed to feel safer here than he had in the Shire – but ever since the coughing started he had whined for home, and for his mama._

 _The calls for Primula were rather upsetting, but Bilbo was not worried about Frodo's health. Hobbits rarely fell victim to serious diseases, while colds were not uncommon. Why, Bilbo himself had caught one in Lake-Town. And this was, after all, nothing more than a cold. The symptoms were mild enough to put Bilbo's heart at ease._

 _"Uncle Bilbo," Frodo whimpered. "Uncle Bilbo, it burns!"_

 _"Burns?" Bilbo blinked and looked down, and his breath was crushed from his lungs._

 _A red ring was burnt into Frodo's little palm, and smoke was rising from the blistering wound. This was not a cold, it could not be._

 _Before Bilbo could scream for Óin, Frodo let out a scream of his own, and there was fire reflected in his eyes and bursting from his hand and –_

Bilbo flew upright, choking on the gasp and scream that had collided in his throat. His sweaty hands gripped the sheets, and for a moment he did not know where he was.

Frodo, he had to get to –

"Bilbo? Bilbo, what's wrong?"

 _Dís._

They were in Rivendell. They were safe. A shuddering breath of relief drew into his lungs, and Bilbo dropped his head. Frodo was safe.

"Bilbo?" Dís asked again, less groggily, and she began to prop herself up on her elbows.

"I'm alright," he groaned, running his hands over his eyes. "Lay down, Dís, I'm fine. Just a nightmare."

"Again?" She sank back against the pillows, and took his hand. "What happened?"

He shuddered, and shook his head wearily. "I don't want to talk about it, Dís. Let's just go back to sleep."

Dís paused as if she wanted to press the matter, but then she sighed, and entwined her fingers with his. "Alright. Sleep well, Amrâlimê."

He laid down beside her, and her arms wrapped around him, and he slowly drifted back to sleep.

When he woke again, the memory of his nightmare was strong, but he pushed it to the back of his mind. Dís did not bring it up either, and he was grateful for that. Frodo was fine, and Gimli would be back by now to tell him so, and to mock Bilbo for being a foolish old worrywart. There was no need to dwell on one strange dream.

He did not allow worry to seep in when he could not find Gimli at the breakfast table. Instead, he sat down opposite his sons and began to fill his stomach, tucking into his bacon and eggs with great gusto.

"So," he said eventually, setting his knife and fork down on his empty plate. "Have Gimli and Aragorn not returned yet? I thought they'd be back by last night?"

Across the table, Fíli and Kíli shrugged. They moved as one, their shoulders touching, and though they looked perfectly content, a little pain tweaked at Bilbo's heart. The thought of one without the other had not got any easier over the last few weeks.

"I expect they'll be back soon," sighed Dís. "After all, Aragorn was raised here, was he not? He will hardly get lost."

"Unless the young'uns have gone wandering," said Fíli, grinning. "Which is more than likely if you ask me."

"Aye, but Aragorn will find them," replied Kíli sagely, though he nodded back with a grin of own.

Fíli laughed. "I don't doubt it, even if they've run off to fight Sauron's Army themselves!"

Kíli snorted his apple juice all over the table, but Bilbo did not scold him. He did not hear Dís doing his job for him, or see Fíli swat his brother on the back of the head.

A sudden, horrible thought had knocked the puzzle pieces into place, the note, the nightmare, the nagging dread, and Bilbo could not breathe.

"Bilbo?" asked Kíli, his voice floating towards him from miles away. "What's wrong?"

 _I'm wrong,_ Bilbo thought desperately, _oh by the Valar, oh let me be wrong, please, please, please!_

He stood up quickly and stumbled back away from the table, feeling the blood leave his face, and his head spin, and he ran. Vaguely he heard shouts, and footsteps behind him, but it did not matter, and blood pounded through his ears, muffling all sound.

He had to be wrong, he had to prove himself wrong.

 _Please._

Feet smashing into the floor harder and faster than they had in years, Bilbo tore through Rivendell until he reached his room. He crashed through the door and fell to his knees, scrambling under the bed. His stomach was churning, threatening to expel his breakfast, but Bilbo ignored it, reaching for the wooden box beneath the bed.

"Bilbo?" cried Kíli, the fear in his voice breaking through to Bilbo. But Kíli was not hurt, he could not be hurt, and so he had to wait, to wait for a moment. Bilbo wrenched the box towards him and fumbled with the catch. When it gave way, he froze.

Prayed, with all his strength.

Closed his eyes.

Opened the box.

Then he opened his eyes, and groaned. Even as his body went cold, his fingers tore through the box, ripping apart the little bags of herbs he kept there, and searching its nooks and crannies for what he knew would not be there. And then he felt paper.

It took him five agonising seconds to open the folds, and when he did, he saw his own verse in Frodo's hand, and his world collapsed.

Some wretched mix of a sob and a cry broke from Bilbo's lips, and he covered his face with his hands, feeling the paper crease against his skin.

 _Frodo, what have you done?_

"Bilbo, what's going on?" demanded Kíli, and Bilbo felt the dwarf shake his shoulder.

Wordlessly, Bilbo held up the letter and Kíli let him go, taking it gingerly. Bilbo stared at the ground, and tried to draw in breaths that would not come.

Sounding rather confused, Kíli read the note aloud. The altered answer to the verse that Bilbo had found the night before.

 _"'Dear Bilbo,' said he,_

 _'I am sorry, but I know that I must go._

 _I love you more than my own life;_

 _I'll do what must be done._

 _My strength is tenfold next to yours,_

 _My senses sharper and mind less spent._

 _If I must my life I'll give to_

 _Keep my family safe.'_ But, but that's just the 'Old Man' lullaby, with a couple of the lyrics altered… What does it mean? Bilbo?" When Bilbo did not reply, fear rose in Kíli's voice. "Bilbo, what's going on? What's happening?"

"Oh, Mahal," Dís whispered, and Bilbo knew from her tone she had worked it out. Surely nothing else could make her sound so broken, so shocked.

Bilbo could not look at her. He could not take his hands away from his eyes. "It's Frodo," he said to Kíli, his voice sounding weak even to his own ears. "Stupid, _stupid-"_

"What's Frodo?" pressed Kíli, pulling Bilbo's hands away from his eyes. Blinking through sunlight and tears, the hobbit winced at the fear in Kíli's wide eyes. "I don't understand, is he in trouble?"

"He's taken it," he whispered, and his head began to spin. "He's, he's taken the ring."

Across the room, there was a thud, and his head jerked up. Stars swam before his eyes at the sudden movement, but he blinked them away and saw his wife on her knees. Dís' legs had given out, and Fíli's attempt to catch her had ended with them both on the floor. But neither moved. They just stared at Bilbo with pale faces and horror-struck eyes.

 _This is all your fault_ , Bilbo thought, and he clamped his hand over his mouth. _If you had thought less of yourself, if you had just worn the damn thing on its chain this never could have happened…_

"Why would he do that?" Kíli said, his voice edging towards frantic. "Why would he, why would he do that, Bilbo?"

"You know the lullaby," Dís said bitterly. Her hand was clenched on Fíli's shoulder in a grip that must have been painful. The young prince did not move. "You know how it goes – the daughter takes her father's place. Takes his burden, to protect him."

"No." Kíli shook his head again, but the hand on Bilbo's shoulder was trembling. "No, he wouldn't, because, because he wouldn't take anyone else with him! Frodo wouldn't take anyone else into danger, he couldn't, it goes against his nature."

"But they would not let him go alone." Fíli sighed. "And you heard Nelly's logic. It was hard for even us to argue with."

Whether from shock or tears, Bilbo's vision was beginning to blur. It did not feel as though the air he dragged in with each hitched breath reached anywhere near his lungs. His hand found Kíli's wrist, and he grasped it like a life line.

This must be what it felt like to drown.

Like Drogo and Primula, thought Bilbo, with a more desperate gasp. He was not there to save his young cousins, but they had died for bearing his name, and now he would be the death of their son.

He would be the death of his little Frodo.

 _Why, Frodo? Why, why, why, no, no, no…_

"No…" Kíli's voice cracked. "No? Bilbo?" No one answered him. All that Bilbo could hear was Dís hitched breathing. Kíli moaned, and dropped his face into his hands. Then, he took a deep breath, and immediately raised his head again. "Let's go. What are we waiting for, we must leave!"

"Follow them," Fíli agreed, almost before his brother had finished speaking. His voice was shaking, but there was a ferocity in it that brought Bilbo's gaze up. Fíli's eyes were blazing, and he looked positively lethal, but still his arms were wrapped around his mother. "We will follow them, and we will damn well bring them home."

* * *

"We've got company!" Nelly declared, jumping down over the rock that sheltered their little camp. By making as straight a line east as they could, the Conspiracy, as they had dubbed themselves, had quickly crossed the plains and made their way into the trees that grew near the base of the Misty Mountains. Now they were heading south, as straight and fast as they could. They had waited until dusk was falling to make camp, and now the light was fading, fast.

Initially, Bróin had suggested taking the High Pass, as Thorin's company had all those years ago, but with the news of sprawling goblin numbers, no one wanted to risk it. Also, as Frodo pointed out, they would emerge too close to the land of the Beornings to be safe. Pippin spouted off something about it being the most obvious choice and therefore the one they should take, but Nelly was not convinced of that. Not in this case, anyway. Nori, for one, would likely guess their logic.

A little guilt tugged at her heart at the thought of her friend, but she shook it off and addressed the serious facing now staring at her.

"Friend, foe or stranger?" asked Bróin. His sword was already drawn.

"Friend," said Nelly. The lads before her groaned, and she sighed, pushing up her sleeves.

"Who?" asked Merry.

"Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas," she replied grimly, looking around. "They'll be on us in five minutes, at the most, and I don't doubt Legolas saw me."

Bróin swore loudly, and Pippin stared at her incredulously. "You were seen? I thought you said you were sneaky."

Nelly's nostrils flared. "So help me, Pippin, I will tie you up and leave you here, you-"

"Not helping," Bróin interrupted, grabbing his bags off the floor. "We've got to hide."

"You think we can?" Frodo said, even as he gathered his own belongings in two swipes.

Nelly paused, glancing over her shoulder. "I doubt it. Aragorn's a tracker, isn't he? We don't have time to lay a false trail or anything."

"Well, that settles it," said Pippin, sitting back down on his blankets and pulling out an apple from his pack. "We'll just say we're lost."

Nelly snarled. Why the others had agreed to letting Pippin come, she would never know. She loved her brother, fiercely and deeply, but that was why he should have stayed. He was too young for this, too naïve, and at times like this it got on her nerves. "Yes, Pippin, let's do that. I see no way that could ever backfire, oh no."

"Stop panicking," Frodo said calmly, his fists clenching and unclenching. "Pack up, get ready to run if we have to. If we can't talk our way out of this, we go, alright? The wolves can run longer than even elvish horses."

In less than three minutes, their entire camp was dismantled. Bedrolls were lashed to wolves, their cooking gear was stowed, and their fire was nothing more than smouldering embers. They waited in a straight line, mounted on their wolves, watching. Waiting.

Scarce minutes later, three horses and a pony were upon them, the sound of hooves drowned out by Gimli's yells. "You damn hooligans! What do you think you're doing?"

Nelly raised her head, and painted an innocent, quizzical look onto her face. She knew that Gimli would be unlikely to buy it, but it may win her some points over the others. "What're _you_ doing? I thought you were in important meetings?"

Gimli went bright red. So he had been worried, then. That was not ideal – worried dwarves meant protective dwarves, and protective dwarves were more stubborn than most.

"We were, until we realised that you'd buggered off!" he growled. "What the devil do you think you're doing?"

"Camping," Merry said, a perfect indignance in his tone. "Like we said we'd be."

"You think this is funny?" Gimli's nostril's flared. "You said you would not leave the valley?"

"We left the valley?" asked Pippin, blinking with a confused innocence that half-convinced Nelly.

"As amusing as this is," drawled Boromir, "we have just travelled at full haste from Rivendell, thinking you'd been abducted by orcs or some other devilry, and an explanation would be nice."

"Well, that was a rather stupid thing to do, wasn't it? How would orcs have taken us from Rivendell, really? It's not our fault you don't believe we can take care of ourselves," said Nelly calmly. Her heard was beginning to beat very fast.

"Not that we don't appreciate your concern," hastened Merry. "Just, it wasn't necessary. We're fine, just exploring."

"Exploring where?" pressed Gimli.

Bróin shrugged. "If we knew where, it wouldn't be exploring, would it?"

"You do yourself a disservice," said Aragorn, his voice oddly quiet. It gave Nelly the awful, creeping feeling that they might be about to be caught. She curled Kya's fur around her fingers and braced herself to run. "You are too intelligent to go 'exploring' at a time like this, and not nearly selfish enough. So what are you doing? You have a plan of some sort, I deem. What is it?"

Nelly glanced at Frodo, who nodded slowly. She nodded back, and turned to the men once more. "A decent plan, as far as we can make it. We will be fine, I am sure, but you have your own quest to take. You ought to get back to Rivendell, or you'll miss it."

"Not a chance," said Gimli, folding his arms. "You'll have to do better than that, Pimpernel Took."

He wielded her full name with the skill her mother did, and it hit its mark. Discomfort and guilt curled her toes. But resolution held her steady. They had their reasons. They were doing what was right. And Gimli, son of Glóin, would have to deal with that.

A prickly silence fell between them. The wolves jostled as if ready to run, and the horses stomped the floor, and even the wind seemed to fall still. A standoff had begun, and neither side would budge.

The darkness grew deeper. Shadows began to play over their faces.

Finally, Aragorn spoke. "Come. We will go back to Rivendell, and you can pitch your mission to your elders. If they give you permission, they will likely give you greater provisions as well."

"Not happening," said Nelly sharply, digging her heels into Kya to back away with the others. "You can try and take us, but we will scatter, you can't catch us all."

Gimli's eyes narrowed, and he flicked his reins. Odo strode forward like a war horse. "Just try us."

"Gimli, you don't know what you're doing," Pippin pleaded, and Nelly's heart sank. If Pippin started talking, they were all doomed. She shot him a look, but he ignored her. "You've got to let us go. It's important, not just for us."

"Important? And what do you think you could do that your elders cannot?" said Aragorn, but Gimli's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He stared at Pippin as though he had been struck dumb, and the colour seeped from his face.

"Oh, Mahal, tell me you didn't…" Something in Gimli's voice stole Nelly's breath for a moment. The anger and frustration was all gone, and in its place was disbelief – and fear. "Tell me you didn't do it."

"Didn't do what?" Nelly said, holding her head up high despite her shaking hands. Her mouth felt very dry. And she was going to murder her brother.

"Didn't do what?" Boromir repeated when no one spoke, staring at Gimli.

"We talked about it," said Gimli, and Nelly's stomach curled. His voice was cracked with heartbreak, and his face looked as though they had stabbed him in the back. "But I didn't think you were serious, I didn't think you'd be so stupid, so selfish. I didn't think you'd betray us like that."

Betrayal. The word hit her like a punch to the stomach.

But it was not true.

 _Stick to your gut, kid,_ came a voice much like Nori's. Her guilt grew, but her resolve tightened. She shot a glare at Pippin, who had the decency to look abashed.

"We're not being selfish!" argued Sam, though he looked on the verge of tears himself. "And we haven't betrayed anyone. We have to do this. It's the only way that makes sense."

With a soft gasp, Aragorn swore in elvish. "They took the ring."

"They what?" cried Boromir, staring from Aragorn to the Conspiracy with wide eyes. "No?"

"Get ready," Nelly murmured to Frodo, out of the corner of her mouth. He nodded, his lips pursed so tightly that the skin around them was white.

"Why?" demanded Gimli. "Why?"

"We told you," Bróin replied, all traces of calm conversation gone from his voice. Instead, his voice was stern as stone, and as unmoving as the mountains. "A thousand times, we told you. Erebor needs its politicians, its diplomats, its leaders. So do Gondor, and the Rangers, for that matter. And this task requires stealth, courage and friendship over strength in arms. Gandalf said so himself. We have that, and we're damn good with weapons as well. Bilbo cannot take the ring, Kíli cannot go to Mordor, and there's no way that Nori should be away from the mountain at its most vulnerable. Dís and Fíli need all the help they can get to make it to the mountain, and to get to Mordor you need to be sneaky."

"Which you have proven to be," sniffed Gimli, but there was something else in his eyes. A discomfort that looked an awful lot like agreement. She stared at him, pouring her determination and surety into her gaze. He was understanding. She knew that he was.

"Your intentions are noble, and your hearts true," said Aragorn, a look of deep sorrow on his face. "But this is a task too big for you, my friends. Bilbo was chosen for a reason –"

"Bilbo cannot take the ring," Frodo said. "Not now."

"Why?" frowned Boromir, urging his own horse a few steps forward. "Why not Bilbo?"

"He has to stay." Frodo's voice was sharp as his sword.

"I know you care for him," interjected Legolas, "but now is not the time to protect one at the expense of others."

"That's not what-"

"Then what?" pressed Boromir, and Nelly saw Frodo's composure crack further.

Aragorn spoke before Frodo could. "Your uncle is strong, Frodo, if anyone is capable of such a task-"

Frodo's fingers tightened around his wolf's fur. "I know-"

"Come back-"

"Bilbo should-"

"You can't-"

"Selfish fools-"

"He can't!" Frodo yelled, so loud that even Nelly jumped. Every voice was silenced but Frodo's, which broke free with a pained cry. "He cannot leave her, not now! It would kill her."

Nelly's heart stumbled. What was he talking about? Kill who?

"What?" Gimli stammered, as even the Conspiracy stared at Frodo in confusion.

Frodo's eyes widened and is he had only just realised what he said. Then, he hung his head. "Auntie Dís – she's, she's pregnant."

A fist of ice punched Nelly in the chest, and sorrow flooded her head to toe. As Merry and Sam gasped and Pippin moaned and Bróin swore, she understood why Frodo had been so very insistent.

"No," Gimli murmured, his voice wavering. "She – is she?"

"I don't understand," said Boromir, looking from Frodo to Gimli with a from. "I would point out that many leave for war or peril while their wives are with child, but I sense that you already know that?"

Nelly swallowed, and turned to her cousin. "Frodo, is she really?"

He nodded, his lower lip quavering.

"Oh, Mahal," she whispered, taking a deep breath. Then, she turned to Boromir. "Four, four babies, Dís has lost since she wed Bilbo. We, we don't know if it's even possible a child could survive…"

"Bilbo doesn't know," Frodo said, his large eyes fixed on the ground before Boromir's pony. "I found out only by accident, and guesswork. I, I swore not to tell. She thinks it is only a matter of time before, well…" Frodo hung his head, and continued. "She needs Bilbo. She could not join the fellowship because she was afraid of miscarrying on the road and bringing greater danger to the company. That's all she ever thinks about, other people. What they need, how to keep them safe. But she needs Bilbo now, he cannot go to Mordor. If, if he went, if he was not there when – they'd be crushed."

"Well," Gimli said gruffly, "that explains it. And settles it. I'm coming with you."

It took Nelly a moment to register what he said. When she did, she gasped. "What?"

"You make good points, and the last best of all. Not for you, perhaps," Gimli nodded at the Big Folk by his side. "Politics over people, and that. I understand. But this is my family, and these young idiots made the right choice. I'm coming with you."

"You cannot," said Legolas, frowning critically at Gimli. "There is no wisdom in this-"

"There is much wisdom in this," retorted Gimli, "And not simply for the sake of Dís. You do not like it because it was not the will of the council, but the council would not listen to them. Like it or not, children or not, I've seen them fighting, and hiking, and sneaking – I know what they are capable of. And, I think they can do this. Or at least that they've as much chance as Bilbo."

"And as much chance as Glorfindel of Rivendell?" argued Legolas.

Nelly would be the first to admit that she would have very much liked Glorfindel to be there. A warrior of such skill would never go amiss. But he would not join them like this, she was sure of it. As such, it was not an option.

"Perhaps not," said Gimli. "But Gandalf said that a hobbit would have as much chance as Glorfindel, alone in Mordor."

"I do not believe that."

"Gandalf said it," repeated Gimli.

Nelly glanced at the silent men. Boromir looked as though he had been smacked in the face by a wet fish. Aragorn's lips were white, and he stared at Frodo.

Then, finally, he spoke. "I understand what you have said, what Gimli has said. Would that Glorfindel had accompanied us, for he and Gandalf both have power beyond your understanding. But I believe that loyalty and love will serve us better than power. And it is not the fellowship I would have chosen, but I have no say here. I will help you, if I can. You have my sword."

Nelly felt her eyes bulge, but she made no effort to stop them. She had expected a chase, a fight, even, but to be joined? For the heir of Isildur to pledge his allegiance?

"People over politics," Boromir mused, drawing her eye. "My father would advise against it, and strongly. Were he here, he would advise us back to Rivendell." The man stared at Frodo for a long moment. "My father is a wise man. But politics would not stop me from keeping my brother from this journey, nor will it force me to stop yours. If this is indeed the path you will take, Gondor will see it done. I am with you."

Gimli turned to Legolas. "So? Will you try to stop us?"

The elf glared at those on wolves. "I do not see wisdom in putting the happiness, or even health, of two people before the safety of the world, no matter how worthy they may be."

"Come now, Legolas," said Boromir, puffing up his chest. "They have already explained – in no foolish terms, I might add – their motives and reasoning, and it seems most made the decision without the knowledge of Dís' pregnancy – may the Valar bless and protect her. But anyway, the elves' most famous love story is all about two people poking dark lords with big sticks for 'personal happiness.'"

"Yes, because the tale of Beren and Lúthien had a happy ending," muttered Aragorn.

"The ending is happy enough, by my reading," replied Boromir curtly, turning to the elf. "Legolas? All things considered, what do you think?"

The elf gazed over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed. "I would see us all return to Rivendell. I do not think there is sense in this. But as I will not be able to return to ring to Imladris alone, I will do my best to protect it, and to protect you. You have my bow."

Nelly breathed out slowly, her own eyes narrowing a little as she studied Thranduil's son. To have one who did not agree with the quest accompany them was dangerous. Dissonance and discord were dangerous. But what were the alternatives? And an elf would be of great use, even if it were not Glorfindel.

On behalf of the company, she nodded.

"But I think that word should be sent to Rivendell," said Legolas. "And I think that Pippin ought to take the message."

"I beg your pardon?" Nelly's brother cried, even as she muttered, "My sentiments exactly."

"You are very young still, Pippin," said Legolas sombrely, and Boromir and Gimli both nodded. "You cannot guess the horrors that lie on the road, and unlike your cousins you are not even close to your majority."

Nelly nodded slightly, turning to look at her brother, but to her surprise he did not look indignant, or childish.

He looked furious.

"Don't you dare," he said softly, coldly. His eyes narrowed and hardened, and his voice was strengthened by an authority she had never heard before. Not from her little brother. "Don't you dare tell me I do not know the horrors that lie on the road. I know better than any of them. I remember."

An awful horror wrapped around Nelly's heart as she stared at Pippin. He could not be talking of Mirkwood, he could not remember that, of course he could not! He had only been a baby, surely he could not remember –

Or had she just hoped that he could not remember?

"What?" Gimli's hoarse whisper was half-stolen by the breeze.

"I remember everything," Pippin said, his voice beginning to shake. "I remember going to sleep in my Papa's arms, and waking up to an orc's hand clamped over my face. I remember running, as fast as I could, and the way the ropes tightened around my neck when I fell. I remember what they made us do to Fíli – I remember the knife, and pushing it – pushing it into his back. His blood, on my hands. I remember Estel carrying me away, I remember _screaming_ for my papa until Gimli put his hand over my mouth. I remember being five years old, and certain that I was going to die. I remember everything. So don't you dare tell me I don't know what horrors there are on the road."

Nelly could not move. He remembered? Had it haunted him all these years? Or was it an awful memory that only appeared during nightmares and brief recollections, like the memory of finding Nori, all but dead? How could he be so carefree, so naïve, if he remembered all of that horror?

Was she a terrible sister?

She glanced at Merry. He looked as stricken as she was – and his tears were already halfway down his cheeks. His mouth was hanging open, but no sound came out of it.

No sound came from anyone. Not until Legolas bowed his head.

"Forgive me," he murmured. "I did not know. Yet I do not regret my wish for you to return – in fact I still wish it."

Pippin sighed, folding his arms across his chest. Already, anger was falling from him like raindrops off a metal shield. "Look, you can send me back if you can. But I'll follow you like a hound until I find you again, unless you chain me to a tree and leave me to starve."

"We left a note," said Frodo quietly, his eyes rather red. "One that Bilbo will understand. He will know what we have done"

"One that won't give him a heart attack and lead him to instantly follow you, I hope," said Gimli, though he only had eyes for Pippin.

"I hope so," Frodo agreed. "But better for him to follow than to lead. He won't catch us."

Nelly glanced around, and quickly patted a nearby branch. If there was ever a time to touch-wood, this was it.

Slowly, they all dismounted, and rekindled the campfire. Pippin's return to his usual self was quick, but Nelly made a note to check on him later. How, she was not sure yet, but she would figure something out. They set up a dual watch, so that no one from either the conspiracy or their hunters were watching alone.

"Just in case you try and spirit us away, or we run off into the night," joked Bróin jovially, laying out his bedroll between Gimli and Nelly's. He volunteered for the first watch, so when their conversations died away, Nelly laid down and gazed in the direction of her brother, letting weariness slowly close her eyes.

 _Distrust and dual watches,_ she mused. _The perfect way to start a quest whose fortune depends on loyalty…_

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, and thank you for reading! Until next time, take care!**


	24. Chapter 24: Disharmony

**Merry Christmas! I've been full on busy since I woke up on Christmas Eve, so I'm sorry this didn't get up yesterday. Nevertheless, we've done an advent calendar – 24 chapters in 25 days. I am currently exhausted and updating when the family has all gone to bed, so apologies for any typos.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Four: Disharmony**

Of her three boys, the last one Dís would have expected to trigger discord among the races and take a potentially apocalyptic situation into his own hands would be Frodo. Even when she first met him, and he was scarce as high as her waist, he had possessed a good deal of sense, and a quiet knack for diffusing tension and breaking down barriers between people.

It had grown into a friendly diplomacy that she could not be more proud of. Frodo was neither rash, nor selfish, and thought often of how to improve and sustain relations between the peoples of the world. As well as the Shire and the Mountain, he had good friends in New Dale, and even a couple in Mirkwood, yet he maintained all the humility of a simple Shire hobbit.

What Frodo had done was not a grab at glory. She knew it could not be, not from her Frodo. Not the boy who had to be hunted down by Dwalin to attend his bi-weekly swordplay lessons when he would rather be reading. The lad who would dance around in the background to make his friends look better – the hobbit who would forsake tournaments and even parties to curl up and read his little cousins bedtime stories, and watch them while their parents partook in the revelry in his stead.

He had never wanted fame and glory. Frodo had only ever wanted everyone to be safe, and happy. She knew that. It was why her sorrow far outweighed her anger at his decision. Her irritation died when she thought of his motives, and crumbled at the notion that he had not seen another choice.

But others did not know Frodo as well as she, and the hastily gathered council was quick to prove it so.

"Such treachery has not been seen since the dark days," declared Galdor, the pretentious messenger from the Grey Havens. He had a rather unpleasant face, in Dís' opinion – his eyes were too narrow and his beardless chin was pointy as Nori's hair.

"Treachery?" snarled Nori, before Dís could get a word in. "They are no traitors – fools, perhaps, but not traitors. They did this to protect their own, the damn idiots -"

"Or to play the role of hero against foes they can barely envision," Galdor interrupted, punctuating his words with a sniff of his stupid, upturned nose.

Dís took a deep breath and tried not to glare at the elf. "For some youngsters it might have been, but not these. When they sought to come with us they raised valid points – they are skilled in both combat and, espionage," It was not the word Dís really wanted, but it would do. "They are young and strong, faithful and quiet – they can move with more subtly and silence than any elf, even Bróin. They are somewhat accustomed to long journeys, and know the basic geography and politics of Middle-Earth. Had logic overcome love, some may have been included in the counting of the Fellowship."

"That may be true," said Glorfindel, his voice soft and sad. Dís' heart sank. and Thorin's heart sank. "But they are untested in war, and against such great suffering. Their hearts are true and brave, yet they cannot fathom the darkness of the path to come."

For that, Dís had no answer. She feared the same – that Frodo and the others would be tormented by the darkness before them, tortured and even killed –

"Is it possible that Aragorn and his companions knew?" asked Erestor of Rivendell. "Aragorn took Anduril with him." Catching the confusion of those around him, the elf added, "The name given to the re-forged sword of Elendil."

Dís' frown deepened. She could not speak for Aragorn or Boromir, or the son of Thranduil, but Gimli would surely never hide such a thing from his Aunt Dís, not when he thought himself one of the adults.

Would he?

To her surprise, Glorfindel seemed to be thinking much the same thing. "I doubt it. I doubt the sword meant nothing more than a precaution. Yet it is not meaningless that it has left Rivendell, intact, at last. I do not doubt that Aragorn and his companions could be persuaded to join the cause, if they are unable to bring the young ones back."

That sounded much more likely to Dís. But then, she had never expected Frodo to take the ring in the first place.

 _Frodo, my darling, what have you done?_

"Some," said Elrond slowly, "may deem that this was always meant to be the way. That fate chased them to this course."

"And some," said Nori tightly, "would tell fate to shove its head up its backside and drop adventure and doom on those who had already embraced it."

"We must go after them, now," insisted Kíli, cutting over the shocked murmurs of Erestor and Galdor. "We must reclaim the ring, and the quest, send the young ones home and destroy the cursed thing ourselves."

"Who would claim the ring?" argued Galdor. "Master Baggins? Has it not been proven that halfings are unwise bearers? First Gollum, whose transgressions are black indeed, then Master Baggins, who was so indolent in his care that the thing was lost, and the latest halfling to take it is a thief."

Red descended before Dís' eyes, and she did not notice Bilbo spluttering in protest as she leapt to her feet. She did not notice the howls of outrage from the others, the furious arguments from the dwarves of Erebor in defence of their hobbits. All Dís noticed was her own fury. How dare – how _dare_ this stranger, this _elf_ say such things about her son, about her husband? How could he compare them to that foul creature? Bilbo was not idle, and Frodo was not a thief, and she roared these facts until her throat burnt and choked her words with a cough.

"Enough," Gandalf called, rising from his seat and bringing an instant hush. Dís' breath was coming fast and short, and she had much left to say, but her respect for the wizard curbed her tongue. His face was stern and grave, and there was a fury blazing in his eyes that belied the calm tone of his voice. "Galdor, you do not know of what you speak. I have known these hobbits for nigh on seventy years, and I can assure you that they are no traitors, nor indeed ill-fit bearers of such a burden. At least, they are no worse than any other race, and far better than some. To compare Bilbo and Frodo Baggins to Gollum is most unfair, and if I may say so, an utter disgrace. When he had but glimpsed the ring, Gollum willingly murdered a dear friend to take it. Bilbo, on the other hand, spared the life of one who had attempted to murder and devour him when he not only possessed the ring, but wore it. By race, perhaps, they are similar, but in character they are as different as a volcano and a snowflake."

Dís heard Bilbo sigh softly, and she looked quickly at him. He was very pale, and the smile he offered Gandalf was very weak. Her anger sank to simmer below her sorrow, and she sat back down, taking her husband's hand. His eyes met hers.

"Yet," continued Gandalf, "Kíli is right. This, conspiracy, as they could be called, may have bitten off more than they can chew, and I fear for them. We should set out after them."

Dís paused mid-nod, an awful thought entering her mind. "But would that not draw the eye of the enemy straight to them?"

Murmurs broke out around the table, and Gandalf's face darkened. "It is possible, yes. Their departure may not yet be noticed…"

"Then are we to sit here and do nothing?" demanded Kíli.

"No," Dís said, putting a hand on her son's arm. "No, we will not do nothing. Going after them may be necessary, but we cannot simply charge off without causing more harm than good. We must be careful."

"But are we worrying for nothing?" asked Erestor of Rivendell, though the hope in his voice was half-hearted. "There is no saying that Legolas and Aragorn and their companions will not return with the young ones in tow."

"They won't," said Nori bluntly. "There's no way. They can't bring 'em back, not with a group of four. It'd be easier to herd eagles on horseback, with your hands tied behind you. Those kids know more'n enough tactics to avoid that, 'specially Nelly and Bróin. They're quick as death, and can hide like shadows in sunlight. Gimli and the lads might catch one or two, but never all six. And if it's Frodo who has it, they'll make sure he's one of the ones that gets away. Gimli won't bring them back. It's not gonna happen."

Her heart heavy, Dís nodded. The innate skill of the hobbits with the training of the dwarves was a lethal combination when it came to envision, and Dís began to pray that encouraging it in the past would not lead to the slaughter of her little dwobbits in the future.

"So, they would run?" surmised Galdor. "Or just kill their pursuers for 'the greater good,' if they are as skilled as you say."

It truly impressed Dís that Elrond responded so quickly that the incensed dwarves, hobbits and wizard were still drawing breath. His voice cut across the protests and roars of anger before they began, and if the faces of Glorfindel and Erestor were anything to go by, he cut over the anger of a few elves, as well.

"That is _enough_ , Galdor. These are friends of Rivendell, and Gimli, their kin, was among the pursuers. I do not deem that any would think to turn sword to a friend, let alone their family." There was so much icy authority ringing in the elf's tone, that Dís was surprised Galdor managed to create a coherent response.

But when the stupid creature spoke, his voice held more defeat than provocation. "We did not think Saruman would betray us." Then he sighed, and stared at the dwarves. "You would ask the same of me, were they my kin."

Dís glared at him, and failed to keep the venom from her voice when she spoke. "I would ask, but I would use tact, and courtesy."

The elf's mouth fell open, and his face lost all colour. He averted his gaze, and for a moment, all was silent. Dís could feel Bilbo's hands trembling, and a scowl of fury was carved into his face. It could not quite remove the fear from his eyes.

Gandalf gave a heavy sigh. "I am afraid that time is not our ally. A decision must be made, and before the height of the afternoon. In any case – some of you have great need to get to Erebor. If we set out for the mountain in great haste, we may be able to overtake this conspiracy, and stop them in their tracks. Moreover, if we do not overtly track them, we should be able to avoid drawing too much attention to them."

"That is a risk, Gandalf," breathed Dís.

"And even if we went, what of Bofin and Vinca?" Bofur looked to Bilbo. "I would not bring them into this."

"If she wished to come, I would have Vinca with us," Dís admitted, to the surprise of some around her. "She is an excellent tracker, she could be very useful."

"I offered sanctuary before," said Elrond with a wry smile. "And I will not deny it to any who wish to stay. Master Bofin is more than welcome, as are any of your company, and may remain under my protection for as long as it can last."

"Call them in," advised Gandalf. "Pervinca and Bofin – there is not enough time to relay the whole discussion to them. They may choose their paths here, if their guardians are willing." He glanced through the window at the steadily rising sun. "Noon is but an hour away. By then, a decision must be made."

* * *

Travelling on a dangerous, top secret mission was quieter than Sam expected.

Of course, he had not expected to be chatting and singing all the way into Mordor, but even when they were riding at a good pace there had been a good deal of talking before Gimli and the others caught them up. Quiet talking, they were not fools, after all, but easy talk nevertheless.

Sam did not trust the new silence. For that matter, he did not trust the newcomers.

Gimli, of course, was all but family, and Sam loved him dearly, yet he did not trust him. He was not wholly convinced that Gimli would not try and seize them by the ear when their guard was down, and drag them back to Rivendell.

Legolas looked like he very much wanted to do just that. His eyes were impassive as stone, but his mouth was the tight line of one sucking a lemon. The elf had readily admitted that he was not convinced by their arguments, that he would turn back if he could. As such, Sam kept a sharp eye on him.

That was not even taking the men into account. They seemed to be won over, but Boromir had keen eyes and a very big sword, and Aragorn had already proven himself a more than capable fighter.

If the hunters turned on the conspiracy, there would be trouble.

When night began to fall they simply continued, as they had before, until Pippin spotted a good spot to camp beneath a small overhang. Bróin lit a small, smokeless fire, and the light danced over the campers, painting shadows over their faces. Ignoring the hunters, Sam took up his position of cook, and began tossing the day's rations into his pot.

The role of cook was one he shared with Bróin, and the day before the dwarf had made a surprisingly succulent stew with their strict rations and a coney Merry had shot during the day, and Sam was determined to match the dwarf's skill. He was not entirely sure that he had when he finished creating his soup, but he reasoned that Bróin had been able to cook with meat, and that had padded out things a lot. But even as these things buzzed around his mind, he had half an eye on Legolas, and an ear pricked for any sudden movements. Not that there was anything much to hear.

Some blunt, awkward attempts at conversation littered the time leading up to dinner, but it was not until they were all eating that Boromir cleared his throat and broke the silence with a full sentence. "So, which course are we actually taking?"

Sam looked up sharply, but it was Nelly who answered. Her voice was calm and firm, much like Dís', and Sam knew full well that it would remain so even if she edged towards a lie. There was a reason that she answered most questions posed towards the group – she knew how to spin an answer.

For now, though, she did not seem to feel the need to lie.

"We're heading for the Redhorn Pass."

Gimli spat out his soup, and Sam frowned heavily at him. "Are you mad?"

"No," said Frodo mildly, despite the trepidation in his eyes. "That was the course that Gandalf and Bilbo were leaning toward, given that the gap of Rohan lies so close to Isengard. You must know that, Gimli?"

"Aye," he growled, wiping his moustache. "But I thought you'd have had more sense. Caradhras-"

"The Cruel," chanted each of the conspirators.

"We know," added Merry.

"But what option would you suggest?" Nelly raised her eyebrows, and Gimli said nothing. "We do have a back-up, of course."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Moria."

It was Aragorn's turn to choke on his supper. "What?"

Gimli, however, stroked his beard, and glared thoughtfully at Nelly. "Balin has been sending out scouts for the past two years. They found little sign of recent orc activity, and the place seemed abandoned. Thorin was considering sending an envoy there to reclaim the city, but I doubt anyone will think of that now."

"That is folly indeed," said Boromir, the firelight reflecting surprise from his wide eyes. "The Black Mines are filled with dangers beyond orcs, if half the tales are true."

"Don't worry," said Nelly, pausing to sip her soup. "We'll only make for the mines if we can't cross the big snowy mountain."

Boromir stared at her for a long moment, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you have any idea the dangers that encompass crossing Caradhras? You seem to think of this as if it were a picnic."

Uh oh. Sam glanced at Nelly as she placed her bowl down on the ground before her. Her eyebrows had drawn dangerously low over her eyes, and her voice rang out cold and hard.

"Oh, do I? Because I do not twitter on about doom and gloom after every sentence? If I swooned, perhaps, would you think me better suited? Of course not. I see the danger, and I respect it, but I will not fear it. Fear chases away common sense, and that is something that we cannot afford to lose. Especially with Pippin in the company."

Her brother frowned deeply, but Merry grabbed Pippin's wrist and shook his head before the younger hobbit could reply.

"I doubt not your heart." Boromir put down his own bowl and put his hands on his knees. "But you cannot simply deny danger, and I am not sure you have thought this through. Women have different needs than-"

Before the man could finish, Gimli and the conspiracy shuffled quickly and shamelessly backwards, and Boromir stared at them in confusion. Nelly, however, laughed. It was not her usual laugh, it was tighter and colder.

"I ask for nothing more than the boys ask for, and I will do everything that they do. Often, I do it better."

"That," muttered Pippin, "is sadly true."

"Do not worry yourself, Master Boromir. I know how to take care of myself, and any 'needs' I may have. If you have a problem with my being here, either we duel to see if my sword is as good as my word, or you go back to Rivendell to tell Bilbo and Dís where this wee little lass has gone." With that, Nelly tossed her hair over her shoulders, and took a deep breath, which she released with a huff. Then, she took up her soup once more, and smiled wryly. "Come now, boys, I can hold my temper. Nowadays."

Sam glanced suspiciously at Frodo, but the young Baggins was grinning, and shaking his head. Frodo was the first to return to his prior seat, continuing with his meal as though nothing had happened.

"Aye, but none of us have forgotten the tantrum of 2950," said Bróin darkly, though he grinned and returned to her side. Then he sighed, drew back his shoulders, and stared Boromir in the eye. "I understand your concern. _I_ wouldn't take any woman on this trip. I wouldn't take my mother or my sisters – but I wouldn't take just any man either. I wouldn't take Bofin, even. Doesn't like travel, Bofin, and he's not the strongest fighter or tracker either. He'd want to _want_ to come, but he'd hate every second of it. And worry all the time. Now, I _would_ take Auntie Esme or Dís or Vinca, if they were willing, for they are as strong and brave as we are. And trust me, we're better off with Nelly here."

Sam nodded sharply at this, folding his arms over his chest. Nelly give Bróin a grateful smile. Boromir looked thoughtful for a long moment, then inclined his head.

"It is not in the culture of my people to send women on dangerous missions, or see them fight with the men. We see that as careless and cruel, and a failure on the part of our men-folk. Yet I yield to both your logic and your custom. I assure you, I meant no offense by my words. I am sorry." He bowed his head with his hand on his chest, and Nelly stared at him for a long moment.

Then she smiled wryly. "Your apology is accepted, and appreciated. I suppose culture clashes will be inevitable, now."

Aragorn gave a sigh like a laugh, and shook his head. "I don't doubt it. In Gondor it would be highly offensive to fail to mention the needs and allowances of a woman, particularly on so dangerous a quest."

"Among dwarves it is manners to ask if anything is _needed_ ," said Gimli, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Yet rude to imply that you think it necessary. And, of course, when it comes to Nelly, it's better just to pretend she was born a boy."

She pulled a face but made no comment. Silence fell over them like a scratchy woollen blanket, and Sam returned his focus to his dinner. Again, it was Boromir who spoke.

"So. Which one of you has the ring?"

"Why'd you want to know?" Sam said immediately, looking up so fast that he sloshed soup all over his hands. The hairs on the back of his head rose even as his eyes narrowed.

Boromir looked rather surprised. "Why should I not know?"

"You might throw whoever has it over your shoulder and run back to Rivendell," said Sam hotly, staring intently at the man. He jerked his thumb towards Legolas. "He certainly would!"

Boromir's cheeks flushed, and his eyebrows lowered angrily. "Have you so little trust in us? You say this is a matter of the 'greater good' – if we run into orcs, say, who shall we protect if only one can be saved? How can we know who will need more support than any other on this quest? There is wisdom in secrecy, but secrets between allies rarely breed good fortune."

"I agree," said Aragorn quietly, rubbing his chin. "We ought to know, Sam. We mean no harm. We gave our word to help, we will not bear you back now."

Sam huffed and folded his arms, but he did not say any more. He alternated his glare between Boromir and Legolas – the most suspicious, the hardest to read.

Gimli stared at each of them in turn, and then sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fíli and Kíli are going to kill me," he muttered, his voice barely audible. Were they not next to each other, Sam would have missed it. Then Gimli looked up and sighed again, speaking for all to hear. "Frodo has it."

Sam and the others all tensed, and Frodo's hands delved deeper into his pockets.

Nelly's sharp tongue beat even Sam to the chase. "What makes you say that?"

Raising his head, Gimli shot her a withering look that was so similar to his father's glare that Sam half thought Glóin had joined them. "I know you. All of you." Sam felt his ears start to go pink. He felt quite guilty enough for running away like this, and did not need Gimli adding to his shame. "It was Bilbo's ring, so Frodo took it." Though he was not sure, Sam thought he caught the dwarf muttering, "And you wouldn't let anyone else take it."

Slowly, Frodo nodded. Wariness lingered in his gaze, but he held his head high. "I have it."

"We debated passing it around," admitted Bróin. "Lest anyone get over-fond of the stupid thing."

"But we decided against it," finished Nelly.

"I take it this was your idea in the first place, Frodo?" asked Aragorn. There was no accusation in his voice, only a calm interest.

"Yes, and no." Frodo sighed, and leant back against a nearby tree. He looked exhausted, and Sam felt a surge of sympathy for his friend. He decided to make sure that Frodo got an extra blanket tonight. "I was determined to do something, but I knew Bilbo would be watching me, so it was Merry and Pippin who watched the council. As it turned out, Nelly was watching too."

"Never rely on another's report if you can collect the information yourself," Nelly recited.

"It's one of Nori's 'rules'," said Pippin.

Frodo ignored them both and continued. "She saw Merry and Pippin sneaking away afterwards, and we met the next day for a council of our own."

"It was a group decision," Merry concluded.

"You were watching the council?" Legolas spoke sharply, and Sam noted that it was the first time the elf had spoken since they sat down. "I did not see you."

"We were in the bushes just behind Bilbo's head," said Merry. "And Nelly was up a tree behind us. Even we didn't see her."

"Told you," Nelly smirked. "I'm sneaky." Then she glanced up at the sky and her smile faded. "We should set a watch and get some sleep. We're up before dawn again tomorrow."

"Voluntarily?" Gimli raised an eyebrow.

"Unfortunately," sighed Pippin. He had not enjoyed their early mornings, though Frodo had enjoyed rolling the younger hobbit out of his bedroll.

"You caught us up," Nelly pointed out grimly. "If we are lucky there will be another day or so before the others figure it out, but we cannot rely on luck. We must put as much distance as possible between us and Rivendell. It will be a hard ride tomorrow if we are to reach Hollin the day after."

"That is a tight schedule indeed." Aragorn frowned and glanced at Gimli. "Possible for the wolves and the horses, but will your pony keep up?"

Gimli puffed up his chest and scowled. "Odo's one of the fastest ponies I've ever seen, and he has the heart of a lion. He'll do just fine."

Sam glanced at the snoozing pony and rubbed his jaw. He missed Bill, and had hated the look in the pony's eyes when Sam had called a wolf instead of his own trusty steed, but it was more sensible. And safer for dear old Bill.

"We'll see," Frodo said doubtfully. "But if he cannot keep up we may need to take the baggage from Kanna, and then you can ride her, Gimli."

The wolf in question let out a soft whine, and then got to her feet and stretched, before trotting over to Gimli to lick him on the nose.

"Perhaps," the dwarf acquiesced, scratching Kanna's nose. "We shall see. Wait – how did you get so much baggage?"

Nelly grinned. "Why, Merry and Pippin, of course! If they're good for anything, it's smuggling food."

 **I really hope you enjoyed that chapter, and I'm sorry for any typos that snuck through my fumbling fingers. An ENORMOUS Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and an equally big load of love to all of you who don't! The next chapter should be up shortly - in the new year I will be attempting a twice-weekly updating schedule, so you should not go too long without updates :D**


	25. Chapter 25: The Carers of Kin

**Happy New Year! I hope that you all are looking forward to 2018, and that it is a wonderful year for you. Thank you for all your support in 2017, and all the years before :D One of my resolutions is to stick to an update schedule of Mondays and Fridays, so you should get two chapters a week! They may be slightly more updates before we catch up to where the we were before, but Mondays and Fridays are the set days.**

 **Anyways, without further ado, I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Five: The Carers of Kin**

Bifur had spent most of his life caring for children that shared his blood. None were his own, yet his little brothers, his cousins and now his nephews and nieces all shared a bloodline that bound them through years and sorrows.

He had grown up caring for his brothers, teaching and playing and brawling with them as all the best brothers do. Only his sister, Billa, had been older than he was, and that was not by much. So, for the most part, he was the big brother. And it was a role that he adored. It was as natural as breathing to him.

Bifur's father had been a twin, and very close to his brother, so Bifur spent plenty of time looking after his younger cousins, too. When a famine had taken away his pregnant aunt, his uncle and cousins had moved into Bifur's house, and Bifur had helped with the little ones all the more. They had hardships and griefs, but they had each other.

Bifur had only been a hundred and one, only one year past coming of age, when he had woken in a strange room, and learnt that there was an axe embedded in his skull. Learnt that his family had been slaughtered. His parents, and his uncle – gone. His sister. His brothers, Bilfur and Bivur, and little Biorr, who had only just learnt how to tie his shoes. His cousins, Boa and Bodur. They were dead. All dead. Of his whole family, only three had survived – Bifur, and the youngest of his cousins. The only two that his own mother had been able to hide before the orcs came down upon them. Cut her down where she stood.

Bofur and Bombur.

He had gone from a family of twelve to a family of three in one day. But he still had children under his care. No matter how wounded he was, how difficult his injury made his life, he knew that he had to look after Bofur and Bombur. And he had done it – through fits that left him twitching on the floor to breaks with reality itself, he had looked after his cousins. In turn, they had looked after him.

Slowly, he got better. Slowly, Bofur and Bombur grew, until they no longer needed a babysitter. Eventually, Bombur was having babes of his own, and Bifur began to care for them. He may not know what life there could be for one as addled as he was, but he knew what he had to do for his family.

And he knew his cousins, better than they knew themselves.

Despite what they would have the world believe, Bombur and Bofur were both predictable, at least to one who knew them well. They often made Bifur proud, and did things that impressed him, but he was never really surprised.

Of course, Bofur would cry at the loss of a hat and not the breaking of a bone – pain did not bother the young dwarf half as much as sadness. Of course, Bombur would fall in love with a fussy eater – he appreciated kindness and an open heart far more than he did food, and he would live off nothing but bland vegetables if it would make his Marta happy.

Bombur's children were much the same. Of course, Ola would refuse to speak in Iglishmêk with Uncle Bifur – her hands were always far too busy fidgeting with a little toy or piece of string or her hair, and she knew that he could understand her just fine. Of course, Bróin would run off with Nelly and Frodo in a valiant (if stupid) effort to save his family, and the world – the boy had never feared harm to himself, and had been an adventurer since birth.

But Bifur was surprised by Bofin.

"I'm coming with you, Uncle Bofur."

"You most certainly are not," Bofur said firmly, folding his arms over his chest. "I told you – when the elves say it's safe enough, you're to go back to the Shire and stay with your siblings. They need you, Bofin."

"No," Bofin swallowed, shifting awkwardly on his large feet. Bifur's eyebrows rose as his surprise grew. His nephew had not voiced any desire to come while they were in the meeting room, but now, alone with Bofur and Bifur, he was insisted. Bofin was the last dwarf he would associate with petulance, and when he said 'no,' he always had cause. "No, I have to come with you. I have to make sure Bro is safe. If I was you, and Adad had run off, you'd follow."

"Aye, but you're not me, and Bróin's not your father." Bofur paused, tugging on his moustache, and then added more gently. "He's my responsibility, not yours, I've told you that, lad. I'll bring him home."

Ears growing redder by the second, Bofin shook his head, and Bifur felt his own head began to tilt slightly to the side, as if that would help him understand. "I have to come with you.

"Why?" asked Bifur, and Bofin's soft green eyes flickered to the older dwarf's face. "Why do you wish to go? There is no dishonour staying, you know that. You know others are more capable of protecting your brother – you do not like to travel rough, little one."

"I have to," Bofin insisted, twisting his hands in his shirt the same way that Bombur used to when he was talking about anything important. "Gandalf says there is room for me. And if I stay, I, I won't be able to forgive myself."

"Forgive yourself? What is there to forgive?" Bofur stared incredulously at his nephew, who did not answer. "I told you – you ought to go back to the shire. You're of more use there, I'm sure of it."

Bifur stared intently at Bofin. The boy, though nowhere near the girth of his father, was larger around the middle than your average dwarf, and his round face often saw him confused for the younger sibling when he stood beside the taller, more toned Bróin. Not only in looks did he resemble Bombur – Bofin was soft spoken and gentle (save when he bickered with his siblings) and he did not much like hardships or hunger, even if the easier road bore less fruit.

"All I need is enough to fill my plate," Bombur used to say, when Bofur spoke of quests and treasure hunts and riches. "No need looking for coin to fill my pockets." It was a philosophy that Bofin had always shared.

But if he was this determined to go…

 _"You may come,"_ said Bifur, and both Bofur and Bofin stared at him in shock. " _If you do not wish to tell us why, I will not pry, but this is important to you, I see. Not simply a thought that this is what you should do."_ He looked at Bofur as he finished speaking, and he seemed to both shrink and age a hundred years in the same moment. His laughter lines looked more like wrinkles, and his eyes were heavy with grief. His mouth was tight with worry, with no room for his usual smile.

Bofin glanced at him, then back at Bifur, and bit down on his lip.

Finally, Bofur nodded. "Go and put together a pack, and put on your mail." He said dully. "We ride at dusk, you've got two hours. If you're sure."

Bofin bowed, and hurried away, but there was no trace of the eager joy of a child allowed to go on an adult trip. Instead, his hurry was solemn, meaningful and strong and yet somehow still gentle. It reminded Bifur of the great eagles, and how their strength was undiminished by the soft down of their feathers.

As soon as Bofin was gone, Bofur whirled around, his eyes misted with fury and fear. "What on _earth_ did you do that for?"

Bifur sighed sadly, putting a hand on Bofur's arm. His cousin looked away. _"Bofin is not acting on a whim, nor is he acting without knowledge of the consequences. You know that."_

Bofur let out a hollow laugh, still refusing to meet Bifur's eye. "Bombur's gonna kill me. And he'll be right to! First letting Bróin slip through my fingers and then taking Bofin into danger like this – he'll kill me, and he'll be right to."

 _"No."_ Bifur frowned heavily. If Bombur reacted with anger or violence, Bifur would be surprised indeed. _"He will understand. Bofin is seventy-two – little younger than Kíli on the quest."_

"And look what that quest did to him," Bofur protested, finally meeting Bifur's gaze. The terror alone was enough to strike Bifur in the gut. "Let alone the physical tortures he went through! The nightmares, the mind sickness – it damn near killed him."

Bifur did not try to argue against that. Bofur was right, and Bifur had long thought it so. Instead, he sighed. "I do not want Bofin to go. It hurts my heart to see it. But he is like his father. He is not protesting for the sake of it, nor moving because he feels it will bring him glory. He will go, or he will regret it until the day that he dies."

"And if he dies on the road?"

Bifur's heart stuttered, and he closed his eyes, holding tighter to Bofur's arm. _"If – at least he would have the dignity of choice. He is not a child, Bofur. Many younger than he have gone to war."_

"And now lay in graves."

 _"It would crush me, if anything were to happen to either of those boys,"_ said Bifur sharply, shaking Bofur's wrist. _"It would kill me. But that does not make this decision wrong."_

Tears began to tip out of Bofur's eyes. "I, I think you're right, Bif, but, by Mahal I wish that I didn't."

 _"I know."_ Bifur could feel his own tears tickle his lashes.

"I feel I've failed them." Bofur's voice grew thicker. "Bróin and Bofin, both feeling they have to go, that their elders aren't enough, that I'm not enough, and Sam – my Sam's going to make a shield of himself I just know he is, Bif, and I can't-"

Bifur pulled Bofur into a crushing hug, and his cousin embraced it with the ferocity of a dying man. Bifur could not really answer him about Bróin or Bofin or brave little Sam, because the same fears were plaguing his own mind.

But Bifur was used to caring for his family, and so he said all he could. " _You are not a failure. Our boys are simply stupid._ "

Bofur's laugh was a little stronger, as was his grip around Bifur's neck. Then he sighed, heavily, and pulled away, wiping at his eyes. "Ah, Bif… What've we gotten ourselves into?"

Bifur smiled sadly and shook his head. _"I am proud of you."_

"Aye," smiled Bofur, with a half-hearted, "so you should be."

Then Bofur took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, twirled his moustache and straightened his hat. He painted a smile onto his face that almost turned the wrinkles back into laughter lines, and wore the cheerful mask even when Bofin saddled his pony and slipped silently into the darkness outside Rivendell with the rest of them.

And Bifur was not surprised.

* * *

It would be so much easier if she did not love the baby.

If she did not love the baby, Dís would not mourn when it was lost. And it would be when – the last four pregnancies had resigned her to that. She was not young, and it seemed that it a babe of mixed blood was never meant to be. If she did not love the baby, that would not hurt so much.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to hide the growing bump beneath the leather corset that doubled as body armour, for it would not feel that it a was secret worth keeping.

If she did not love the baby, it would be easier to blame it – if Frodo had not guessed, if the sweet, stupid little boy she had long thought of as a son had not noticed the headaches and nausea she had so desperately hid, would he still have taken the ring? She was not sure, but if she did not love the baby she could blame it, and hate it for driving Frodo to such extremes.

She could hate it from stopping her from pledging to join Bilbo and Kíli in the first place.

If she did not love the baby, she would not be burdened by her decision to follow Frodo. Dwarven women stayed active throughout most pregnancies, but this was not a leisurely hike. They were riding fast as their ponies could manage, but only when darkness gave them cover, and an added risk of jostling or falling. There was no conversation, save murmurs and whispers when they paused and hid during the day. No breaks, save a quarter hour at midnight to feed and relieve themselves. If she did not love the baby, her heart would not lurch and every stumble of her pony's hooves, and she would not carry the guilt of wondering if saving one child would lose her the other.

But Frodo was alive, and she knew this. The poor soul in her womb would probably never live, even if she confined herself to bedrest for the coming months. If she did not love the baby, it would not hurt so much. But even though she loved her baby, she knew that she had to put Frodo first. He was in more danger, yet she had a greater chance to save him.

So she had steeled herself, and ridden forth from Rivendell. Gandalf was their leader, and rode at their head. He had cast some sort of tracking spell – she neither knew nor cared to know the ins or outs of it – but described a pale light on the ground where Frodo and the others had trodden. It would allow them to match the trajectory, he said, without being forced to use daylight to discern tracks, or follow them exactly. It would make it less obvious that they were following at all.

She hoped. They rode in a group of sixteen – bigger than she might have liked, given that they were attempting to go unnoticed, but not so big that secrecy was impossible. After all, it was only one more person than there had been during the Quest for Erebor, and stealth had been important there, too. The main difficulty they had was hiding so many ponies and horses during times of rest, but Glorfindel and Erestor – the elves that had accompanied them – helped often with that. They would coax the beasts down to the cover of bushes or trees, or remove their baggage to make them appear as a wild herd. Along with Gandalf, their knowledge of the land meant that a cave, or at least rocky formation or cluster of trees, could offer the company a more secluded place to rest.

A selfish part of Dís wished that their group could stay so large forever, but it would not. As soon as they caught Frodo – if indeed they managed it – Bilbo, Kíli, Nori, Bofur and Bragi would follow Gandalf and Glorfindel to Mordor. With the help of their remaining companions, Dís and Fíli would corral Frodo and the others, and hasten back to Erebor.

It would be a road wrought with peril, but it would be safer than Mordor.

Her heart felt like it was being struck by an anvil, but Dís rode with her head held high and her emotions locked deep inside. They would have to be if her family were to escape this doom alive. Soon, too soon, she would be sundered from Kíli and Bilbo. Perhaps forever.

Dís gasped, her hand flying from the reins to rest upon her stomach. Then, again, she felt it.

A familiar fluttering sensation, a feeling like bubbles rising through her belly.

Again, it came, so soft she might have missed it, but unmistakeable.

The baby was moving.

Dís closed her eyes, and dragged her hand back to the reins.

It would be so much easier if she did not love her baby.

* * *

As it transpired, Odo the pony could keep up with the wolves. Frodo was convinced that it was sheer stubbornness, learnt from his master. The pony would often lag towards the bag of the group, but if ever someone suggested it was slowing them down, Gimli would dig in gently with his heels and the pony would throw back its black mane, snort in annoyance and trot to the front of the group.

In a way, it reminded Frodo of Uncle Thorin.

However, despite Odo's brave speed, they did not reach Hollin the day after tomorrow. Instead, it was the day following that – a week to the day after they left Rivendell. Frodo did not mind a little leeway on their proposed schedule. Even as they had written it, studying maps and making calculations and plans, they had left some wiggle room. As it was, when they were travelling to and from Erebor, it usually took them two or even three weeks to reach this point, if they had passed through Rivendell.

Usually, they did not. It had long been safer to pass through the gap of Rohan than try and cross the Misty Mountains with wagons and children, so more often they took the Green Way, straight from the Shire to the river Isen.

As such, Frodo did not know Hollin well, but he liked the land. There was a rich, wholesome air about it, and they had passed through it this year. Bilbo had wanted to visit Rivendell on the way to the Shire, though it had delayed them. Frodo suspected that he had been hoping to run into Gandalf.

No. Frodo could not think of Bilbo and Gandalf. The guilt burnt his heart too strongly, no matter how firmly he believed in his cause.

The ring, his beautiful ring, was so precious to him, so dear already, and already he loathed it. And loathed the idea of anyone taking it from him. Bilbo would likely never forgive him. Frodo knew he would just have to live with that, and he knew that he could live with that, as long as Bilbo was alive.

Instead, he turned his attention back to Hollin – the trees, the grass, the clear air. It was peaceful, quiet.

It was very quiet.

Frodo did not notice how quiet it was. He simply rode until the sun had almost waned, and then slipped from his wolf's back and slumped down next to Sam at the campfire. It was Bróin's turn to cook, and everyone's moods were a little lighter. Having no sign of pursuit from friend or foe had taken a little of the stress from their hearts, and Frodo felt comfortable beneath the early moon.

It reminded him of a long time ago, of a night when Bilbo was not angry at him, and when he felt safe as can be beneath the stars.

 _Frodo could not get comfortable in bed. It was too big, too soft, and he was too alone in the room. His feet dangled above the floor for a moment, and he whimpered, dropping down onto the floor. He sniffed, and held tightly to the blanket his mama had made him._

 _Would Uncle Bilbo be mad if he got up already?_

 _Maybe not. Not if he said it was a nightmare –_

 _He padded slowly down the hall, but Bilbo's door was open and there was no one in there. Frodo swallowed. He had not been alone in months. In forever._

 _A draft ruffled his hair, and he peered up the hall. He could hear chattering, quiet talking between Bilbo and Kíli, and Frodo sighed in relief. He hurried down to the front door, and saw Bilbo sitting on the path outside, between Fíli and Kíli. They were all staring up at the sky._

 _Frodo swallowed. "Uncle Bilbo?"_

 _"Come here, Frodo," Bilbo said warmly, holding out his hand. Frodo scampered over, and clambered into Bilbo's lap. "Look!"_

 _Frodo looked up at the sky, and gasped. There were stars flying across the sky, flying like fairies! He had never seen stars fly before. Uncle Bilbo's arms wound around him, and Frodo snuggled down into his lap, getting more comfortable._

 _Kíli leant against Bilbo's shoulder and took Frodo's hand, and Frodo gave a happy sigh. This was much better than a big, lonely bed._

 _He heard the heavy, clumping footsteps of the dwarves coming down the hall, and he looked up to see Bofur and Nori emerge. Bofur sat down at once beside Fíli, and after a moment Nori said a bad word and sat beside Kíli._

 _Yawning, Frodo tucked his blanket up to his chin. Bilbo shifted him, to make it more comfortable. The moon was as big and round as a shiny silver coin, and the stars flew across it, and slowly he closed his eyes._

 _After a long moment, he heard Bofur speak. "My grandmother used to think they were bad omens…But my father used to claim that they were signs of hope. I never knew which to agree with."_

 _"Maybe they're neither…" said Kíli's voice."Maybe they're just dancers."_

 _"Dancers?" yawned Nori._

 _"They do look like they're dancing…" Fíli agreed, and Frodo thought so too._

"Wait," Aragorn said, jolting Frodo back to the present. He looked up, and stared at the man, who was getting to his feet. "What is that? Legolas?"

Frodo turned and looked over his shoulder. His frowned – silhouetted in the darkening sky was a large, dark shape, or many shapes, he could not be sure. His hand moved to his sword.

"A gust of wind?" suggested Gimli, though he did not sound like he believed it for a second.

"It's moving fast." Boromir stood up. "Against the wind."

"Crebain, from Dunland!" Legolas cried, turning wildly to Aragorn, who immediately barked out, "Hide!"

With a start, Frodo dropped his dinner and dove on the fire with Sam, stomping it out with his bare feet. Grabbing his pack, he wheeled around to look for somewhere to hide, only to have his ankle pulled out from underneath him. He crashed onto the floor with a startled 'umph!', and was then swiftly tugged beneath a nearby bush.

"Sorry for the gravel rash," whispered Bróin. "You were hesitating, cousin."

Despite himself, a small smile flickered across Frodo's face, and he poked Bróin's nose with his toe. The pain was stinging, but he knew it was temporary, momentary in fact. And unimportant.

Beneath the leaves, he saw the scrambling feet of the others disappear one by one. He held his breath, and felt his hand clench around the ring that hung around his neck.

Frodo closed his eyes.

A few moments later, he heard flapping and squawking, just overhead. He felt Bróin stiffen beside him, but they did not move. Not even when the noises stopped, and they were left to the silence. It was fully dark before anyone moved again.

"Come," Aragorn called quietly, after what felt like a lifetime. "The coast is clear. But I suggest we travel in the dark now – these lands are being watched, and our steeds will have been seen."

Frodo crawled out on his belly, and found he could see just a little in the light of moon. The wolves, horses, and pony were restless, back pawing at the ground, and the others were slowly coming out from beneath rocks and bushes of their own.

"By who?" asked Pippin, crawling out of a nearby bush with twigs in his hair and a look of annoyance to rival the steeds. "What's a crebain?"

"Crebain, they are birds – crow like, with sharp eyes." Aragorn shared a meaningful look with Legolas, a look that Frodo did not like. "They may well be spies of Saruman."

Frodo groaned, and kneaded his eyes with his fists. He had been looking forward to sleep. "We must leave, then, now."

"Must?" Aragorn shook his head. "No. But I would recommend it."

"We shall," Nelly declared, sighing heavily. "If we ride hard through the night we can rest in morning, with a better place to hide, if we draw close enough to the mountains." At the men's hesitance, she added, "The wolves and pony did worse on the way to Rivendell. They can cope with another ride now."

Denahi howled softly, and then nuzzled Merry's neck and nudged his waist.

"They're ready to go," Merry said, smiling wearily.

Pippin sighed dramatically. "Let's just get on then. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep." With that, he climbed on top of Fíli's wolf, Sokka, and let his eyes begin to droop. The wolf gave a laugh-like huff, and then stood and waited patiently for the others.

So, they rode through the night, and only Pippin slept.

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please do let me know what you think, your feedback means the world to me :D The next one should be on Friday, so until then, take care, and HAPPY NEW YEAR :D**


	26. Chapter 26: Confronting Caradhras

**Hey there! I hope you enjoy this chapter, and forgive any typos I make. Also, I'm sorry that this isn't Friday - when I went to upload last night, the site kept giving me error messages and would not let me upload any new documents :/ However, it's working now, so I'll give you two chapters in a row to make up for it ;)**

 **Chapter Twenty-Six: Confronting Caradhras**

No matter what that elf from the havens said, or how often he muttered about 'denial', Soren knew that Frodo and the others had not betrayed them. He knew all about familial betrayal, and this did not fit the bill.

As he rode through the darkness, his eye on the crown prince, Soren's mind ran back to his own twenty-ninth year. It was a far simpler time, when royals had been but acquaintances, and he had been the happy child of a minor lady and her merchant husband. His father had travelled all the way to the Iron Hills, and Soren had not seen him for almost a year. But Ragan had promised that when he got back, he would take Soren to the Training Halls for the very first time. Up until then, Soren had only been allowed to practise fighting in the children's arena.

His father had promised to come back with a real sword, and he did. But he had also come back with something – someone – else.

 _When Soren woke, he found his mother standing in the bedroom door. He rubbed at his eyes. "Ama?"_

" _Guess who arrived last night?" Svana said, her smile growing._

 _Soren's heart leapt, and he tumbled out of bed. "He did? He did?"_

" _Go and see!" she urged, and Soren tore out of the room, down the hall, into the kitchen –_

 _There he was. Ragan, son of Rogan, tall and strong and home._

" _Adad!" Soren squealed, launching across the room and flinging himself into his father's arms. "You're home."_

 _Ragan laughed his booming laugh, and snuggled Soren. "I am, at last, my little warrior. Have you had a good year?"_

 _Soren shrugged, too excited to hear about his father's adventures to bother thinking about his own. "Yes, but Ada, did you find the Iron Hills, did you-" Soren froze. There was another person in the kitchen. Hiding behind his father's chair. Soren leant out from his father's hips to get a better view, and his surprise grew. It was a tiny child, not even as tall as Soren (who had been a ridiculously small child) with wide, frightened eyes that looked almost purple, and weird white hair. Hair that was cut very, very short. Soren had never seen such short hair before, but he knew that sometimes the Guard did it to punish bad people. But this dwarfling did not look bad. Just small, and scared._

 _"This," Ragan said, putting a large hand on the child's shoulder. "Is Bragi."_

 _Soren peered down from his father's hip, staring quizzically at the boy. "Why's he here?"_

 _"He's going to be living with us for a while, as my ward," explained Ragan slowly. "Isn't that right, Bragi?"_

 _Bragi looked up so quickly Soren did not see him move, and his eyes grew so wide that Soren thought they might pop out. Bragi nodded, twice, and then stuck his thumb in his mouth and hung his head. Ragan squeezed the boy's shoulder gently._

 _Soren frowned. "What's a ward?" A sudden, awful thought made him gasp. "Ada, you didn't just go and replace me, did you?"_

 _"No, no, mizimith," Ragan murmured, shaking his head and clicking his tongue, before kissing Soren on the nose. "No. Bragi is here because his family can't look after him anymore, so I am going to."_

 _"Why you?" asked Soren suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at the boy. He had been without his father for eleven whole months – if this Bragi was going to steal Adad's affection, things would not go well. To Soren's surprise, the boy cringed at his gaze, and his strange violet eyes sparkled with tears. Then Bragi ducked his head away again, and his hand rose towards his hair, before falling away, and settling instead with his thumb in his mouth._

 _"Because I said so," murmured Ragan. "I shall tell you more when you are older."_

 _Soren paused, looking from the tearful boy to his father. He felt an odd swoop in his tummy. There was only ever one reason for his father not to tell him things. "Is, is it a bad scary reason, Ada?"_

 _"Some of it." Ragan nodded. "But now is a time to put the bad and the scary behind us. I want you to treat Bragi like a brother, Soren. He is part of our family, now."_

 _"Hm…" Soren pinched the air beneath his chin, mimicking his father's thoughtful stroking of his beard. "I don't have one of those. How'd I do that?"_

 _Ragan snorted, and shook his head. "Think of how Framarr looks after you, Soren."_

 _Channelling his older cousin as well as he could, Soren did his very best to treat Bragi as a brother, but it did not seem that the other boy wanted to even be his friend. He would never, ever, talk to Soren, and just nodded and shook his head and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He hardly ever even looked Soren in the eyes. It made Soren feel like he was a horrible person, and he did not like that at all._

 _Soren was not a horrible person. Sometimes, he would catch Bragi playing with his toys, and he did not even tell him off! But when he tried to join in, Bragi would gasp and thrust the toys back at Soren, before running to hide behind Soren's Amad's skirt. Soren would try and try to talk and play, but Bragi just did not seem to care._

 _Finally, about forever after the boy came home, Soren stomped into the kitchen and glared at his mother._

 _"I don't want Bragi here anymore."_

 _Turning away from the stove, Svana stared at him in surprise. "I beg your pardon?"_

 _"I don't want him to be here anymore," insisted Soren, ignoring the wobble of his lower lip. "He doesn't like me, and, and he just spends all the time with you and Ada but he doesn't like me, and I don't like it when he doesn't like me in my own house! I don't wanna be the odd one out and I don't want him to be here anymore."_

 _"Oh, Soren," Svana murmured, picking him clean up off the floor and popping him on the counter so he was at eye level with her. It did not do much for Soren's attempts at Big Boy seriousness. "He doesn't not like you."_

 _"He does so! He does so doesn't like me!"_

 _"Soren, I'm so proud of you."_

 _Well, that was not what he had been expecting. "Huh?"_

 _"You've tried so hard to make him welcome, I've seen you at it," she said, tucking his hair behind his ears. "I am so proud. I see how hard you try. But Bragi is not quite ready to be a brother yet."_

 _Soren frowned. "Why?"_

 _Svana took a deep breath. "Well, some bad things happened to him. Bad people tried to hurt him, and his Amad tried to help_ them _, and not Bragi. Then the bad people took his Adad away forever, and his Amad said some nasty things and did not want him anymore."_

 _Horror curled around Soren's heart and squashed it, and his little hand tightened around his mother's wrist. "Ama, Ama, you wouldn't, you-"_

 _"No, baby, never," she murmured, smiling sadly. "I will never, ever let anyone hurt you, and neither will your Ada. But Bragi's Amad was a bit different. Now, that means that Bragi is very scared and sad right now, and he does not understand much more than you do. He is not ready."_

 _"How can I make him ready?"_

 _Svana paused, and then smiled. "Soren, do you know how most dwarflings get new brothers?"_

 _He nodded. "Their Amads eat magic baby potions for dinner and their Adads do a dance, and then the baby grows in their Ama's belly."_

 _Svana grinned. "That's right. And the baby will be in the mother's belly for months and months, and it will not be ready to be a brother until it decides that it is ready. Then, it will let the mother know, and be born and become a brother. Bragi is not a baby, but he needs time to grow and learn and heal before he can be a brother. Let him decide when it is time. Let him come to you, Soren."_

So Soren had left Bragi alone, and waited very impatiently. Bragi had approached Soren two weeks later – two weeks that felt like an eternity to the young dwarfling, but two weeks that were now a lifetime ago. Since then, there had been no better word than 'brothers' for the pair, and it had delighted Soren to no end when he discovered that Bragi was to be his older brother. Soren quite enjoyed being the baby of his extended family.

But over the years, Soren had learnt every detail about the betrayal that brought Bragi to his door. Fury still broiled in his stomach at the way Bragi's 'mother' Mygga had tried to sell him to the Old Ways followers, and the hatred rose up his throat at the knowledge she then screamed that the child was a curse when Ragan returned him to her. Her words, had learnt from both Ragan and Bragi, were scorched into Soren's heart.

 _"He's spawn of the dark lords, he is a devil! Take him away, lord, I beg you, leave him in the woods for the beasts if you are too afraid to slay him yourself!"_

Ragan had later said he spared her life only out of pity for the children hiding behind her skirts.

A mother betraying her young son caused a burning pain and fury that scarred all those who knew of it. Not drawn faces of concern for her well-being.

A family betrayal had then struck Soren himself, not a quarter of a century ago. He could still remember the sickening horror he had felt when he discovered that his cousin, Framarr, had been one of the traitors to Thorin Oakenshield. He remembered the agony of knowing that the dwarf who taught him how to fix bandages and hunt game had murdered little Frodo's parents in front of him, and slaughtered innocent hobbits in an attempt to torture and kill Fíli, Kíli and their companions.

Soren remembered the emptiness that forced its way into his chest when Framarr admitted proudly, desperately, to kidnapping Fíli and Paladin and Gimli and little five-year-old Pippin. He remembered the shame and the rage and the anguish of thinking that Fíli and Paladin were dead, because of Framarr.

He remembered how he felt no guilt in denouncing Framarr forever.

The betrayal of a cousin to cousin, and of subject to lord and king, sent knives into the organs of those it touched, and then twisted the blades, and turned the world upside down and inside out. It caused years of torment and fury, but not a sorrowful understanding that one would do the same thing in their shoes.

Soren knew all about familial betrayals.

This was not one of them.

There was no malice in the theft of the ring. No malice, no greed, no bravado – he was sure of it. There was less pain. He knew that the others could not see that, but it was true. The pain would be much worse if the conspiracy was born of ill-intent.

As the darkness deepened and warned them of the coming dawn, the company began to slow, their eyes scanning their dim surroundings for any sign of shelter. It came in the form of a surprisingly spacious cave, one that hid half of the ponies as well as their riders.

He could hear a debate beginning as to which route their young companions would likely have taken.

"…could be heading for the High Pass _or_ Caradhras, though with the path you lead by, Gandalf, I'd say Caradhras is the more likely option…"

"Or even the mines of Moria. Damn kids heard enough of Balin's reports and Bilbo's planning to know it was an option."

Fíli swore, loudly. "I had not thought of that."

Sighing, Soren settled himself near the mouth of the cave, watching for the sunrise. The others could debate well enough without him. He could offer no insight into the minds of the young conspiracy – at least none that Fíli and Kíli and the others would not already know.

But he could keep watch, and he did so, his eyes scanning the surrounding lands. They were drawing closer to the mountains, and it was rockier, and more heavily covered by trees than it had been so far. The cave had been a blessing, but not a surprise.

Soren let the others debate freely. He knew that there was nothing that he could say that the others would not know, and know better.

With a wordless sigh, Bragi sat down at Soren's side, and they shared a wry smile.

"Well," said Ehren, plonking himself down besides Bragi. "If this isn't a barrel of frogs in a tea room, I don't know what is."

"It isn't exactly ideal," admitted Bragi. "I wish we could help more."

"We can't," Soren said. He reached for his quiver and began to inspect his arrows. "Not right now, in any case."

"So, we sit here as useless lumps," finished Ehren sadly.

"No." Soren smacked his friend on the back of the head. "That's not what I meant. We're not here for decision making, and we've helped there as best we can already. So, we sit here and do our jobs. Or at least, Bragi and I do. We didn't lose our charges."

"Right!" Ehren pointed his finger in Soren's face. "Right, let's get this straight, Bilbo told me I didn't have to go on the stupid waltz into the woodland with Frodo, and I'd like to see you keep track of the slippery beggar for the whole damn day! You got the easy prince. Bragi's stuck with Kíli 'Walkabout' Baggins, and I've got the sneakiest hobbit since Bilbo."

"Well, you _had_ the sneakiest hobbit since Bilbo," added Soren, a smile twitching below his moustache. It was not a funny situation, but teasing Ehren always lifted his mood.

"But he does have a point." Bragi smiled wryly, and dug Soren in the ribs. "You have the easiest charge."

Soren considered this for a moment, glanced at Fíli, who as if on cue, was walking over with his brother. "That is true."

"What's true?" asked Kíli tiredly. There was a hint of longing in his voice, and Soren felt a surge of sympathy. Kíli needed something to smile about, to laugh about. Something true, and unimportant. Soren grinned.

"I have the easiest job of the three of us," he gestured to Bragi and Ehren. "Fíli's the easiest prince to babysit."

Fíli snorted, though his smile did not reach his eyes, and Kíli gave half a grin. The princes sat down beside Soren, and he could feel Fíli sag as he hit the floor. They both looked as though they had not slept in months.

"You all have the worst jobs I can imagine," Kíli sighed. "I don't know how you stick with us."

"What are you talking about?" Soren scoffed, reaching over Ehren to shove the stupid dwarf's arm. "We have the best jobs in the world!"

"We get paid to spend time with our closest friends," said Bragi.

"And to travel, expenses paid, across the world," added Ehren, waving his share of jerky in the air. "This is coming out of your pocket, dear prince, not mine."

"Not to mention the fact that it's never dull," said Soren, nodding his head once.

"No, it's just life-threatening," Kíli mumbled, hanging his head.

Soren pursed his lips and glanced at Fíli, who looked equally lost. To their surprise, it was Ehren who broke the silence. "You need to cut out the sulking, Kíli. I get it, this whole situation is as much fun as a hungry warg, and we're all terrified out of our minds that our wee cousins might just get themselves hurt and damn the entire world. I know. But you need to snap out of this moping, or more people are going to get hurt."

Soren's eyebrows flew all the way up to his hairline and he stared at Kíli, whose mouth had dropped open. Ehren was well known for being blunt, but that could easily be received as a very low blow. To Soren's relief, there was no anger on Kíli's face – only surprise, and more than a little sorrow. Then, the young prince took a deep breath and nodded.

"You're right." He straightened his shoulders and shook his hair from his shoulders. "Time to grow up. Even if you are as tactful as an ass with fleas."

Ehren grinned sheepishly, and gave a shrug, and Bragi shook his head. Soren glanced at Fíli. He, too, seemed relieved that Kíli was not upset by Ehren's remark, but he also looked wearier than ever. Like the weight of the mountains was crashing down upon him.

Well, that was no weight to hold alone.

Soren swatted Fíli's shoulder. "That goes for you too, my friend," he murmured, too low for the others to hear, and waited for Fíli to meet his eyes. "To worry for them is in your nature, but you know how to put that away, for now. They need you to be the warrior, now. We all do. Anything less puts everyone at risk."

Fíli sighed, and massaged his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry," ordered Soren. "Just be strong."

Slowly, Fíli nodded. "Right. Right." Then he rolled his neck and dragged his hair up into a ponytail. His jaw set into a look that Soren knew all too well. It was a hardened look. A warrior's look. Then, he smiled, grimly. "Thanks," he murmured. "For having my back."

Soren shrugged and smiled. "Always will."

For the rest of the night, Soren did what he could to raise the groups' spirits. It was his job, after all. There was more to bodyguarding than keeping your charge from harm, especially when they were as dear to you as blood kin. It was the bodyguard's duty to protect their charge's mind – affirm their decisions and steer them from disaster, warn them when to raise their guard, and help keep their spirit strong even when the odds seemed unconquerable.

Especially when the odds seemed unconquerable.

He did not know if they would reach Frodo and his companions, or if they would make it back to Erebor in one piece. What Soren did know was that he and Bragi and Ehren, would be there with their charges – their friends, their kin – until the bitterest of ends.

Because Soren knew all about familial betrayals. And he knew that he would never commit one.

* * *

Two days after seeing the crebain, the fellowship reached the feet of Caradhras.

Frodo gazed up at the enormous mountain and sighed. He was not looking forward to this at all. He loved Erebor with all his heart, and had a great fondness for mountains, but he preferred being _in_ them to climbing _up_ them. This was especially true when climbing up them in the winter, when it was likely to snow, and the mountain had a reputation for being 'cruel' that preceded even Sauron.

"Remember, we will need extra wood and kindling," warned Boromir. "As we can carry."

The others began to dismount, and the wolves rummaged in the dead leaves for sticks, but Aragorn hesitated, his eyes on the mountain. "Take care," he said. "We should not light a fire up there if we can avoid it – we do not know who sent the crebain, if indeed they were sent, and we do not know who else may be watching. We should not advertise our position with fire unless the alternative is death."

Frodo shuddered, and glanced at Sam. From the tightness of his lips and furrow of his brow, Frodo knew that Sam was looking forward to this just about as much as Frodo was. But then, Sam shifted his pack on his shoulders and bent towards the floor, feeling around for dried wood, and Frodo followed suit.

There was not much to be had. It had not rained in days, but there was a lot of ground water, and most branches were covered in damp moss or mud, and still damp inside. But they gathered what they could, and lashed four small bundles to the baggage on Kanna. The wolf barely seemed to register the extra weight, but she did give a sigh, and nuzzle Frodo's hand.

"I know, girl," he murmured. "This is not going to be an easy path for any of us."

She whined, her wise, blue eyes boring into his, and then licked his nose.

"Frodo," called Nelly, already mounting Nyla. "Let's go."

Frodo nodded, but Aragorn held up his hand with a look of great sorrow. "Wait. We cannot take the horses up the mountain."

Gimli snorted, and shared a smug smirk with Bróin, but Frodo's heart sank, and Boromir and Legolas both nodded in a resigned manner.

"Seems a pity to leave them," said Boromir, patting his horse's neck. "This fellow came from Rohan – he has been a great companion."

Legolas dismounted swiftly and scratched behind his horse's ears. He gazed into the beast's eyes for a long moment, and then gave a small smile. "I will bless them. They will find a safe path home, and indeed be safer than we are."

Aragorn put a hand over his heart and bowed, and Boromir smiled. Holding the reins of all three horses in light fingers, Legolas began a quiet chant that Frodo could not quite catch.

Aragorn looked to the dwobbits and Gimli. "Will the wolves and pony be capable of taking such a path?"

Several of the wolves let out whines of indignation, and it was Merry who answered for them. "They'll have less problems than we will, I'd wager. The younger ones were born and bred in the mountain – our mountain that is, but still. They can handle the terrain, so can Odo." Merry cast his eyes up the mountain and grimaced. "Unless we meet something up there we haven't met before."

Immediately, Frodo thought of the Barrow Downs, and his heart sank. They had already met something new and dangerous on this journey, and Gandalf was not here now. If they ran into an enemy like the Barrow Wights, they could be in big trouble.

With a final murmur of prayer, Legolas gently pushed the faces of each horse, and they turned to canter away. Aragorn's horse hesitated for a moment, looking over his shoulder at his master, who raised a hand in farewell. Frodo hoped that they would find a safe path home. He hoped that the wolves and pony would be able to handle the treacherous pass.

It was slow work, especially compared to their previous speed. Before, despite the somewhat difficult terrain, they had found easy paths through Aragorn's expertise, Frodo's map-knowledge and Nelly's cunning, and to be moving at a walking pace felt odd. It made Frodo feel more vulnerable, less prepared. It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He drew his scarf closer around his neck. As their path grew more twisted and steep, they slowed further, and they had scarcely been climbing for three hours when the first snow began to fall.

At first, it looked rather beautiful, but it quickly picked up speed, and began to stick to their path, and blur their vision. Frodo's toes curled, and he buried his feet in Sitka's thick, warm fur. The wolf, for his part, did not seem bothered by the weather. He panted slightly at the incline, but his eyes were bright and his tongue poked out every so often to catch the snowflakes.

It was so cold.

The wind was bitter, and accosted them from all sides, throwing flakes so thick that soon it was hard to see. Frodo lost track of the hours, and almost lost track of his companions. He could see the vague, dark shape of Aragorn in front of him, his arm shielding his face as he ploughed through thigh deep snow. If he looked behind, he could just about make out Sam, whose hood wore a snowy hat of its own.

He could not see the others.

The wind bent him lower and lower, until his face was buried in Sitka's neck. Only the very top of his face poked over the wolf's head, because he felt like he should probably look where they were going. His eyes stung and watered, and he wiped them quickly in case tears froze on his face.

Never in his entire life had Frodo been this cold. Not even when he fell into the Long Lake one winter while playing with Tilda, Bard's daughter. At least then he had been quickly fished from the water by Bain, and immediately bundled in front of a warm fire, with more blankets than he could count.

Now, there was no fire, and no blankets. But he was not a child anymore. He was not a helpless, panicking boy to be fished from a lake and saved by his elders. It was his turn to do the saving, and that meant weathering the cold, without complaint or self-pity.

His resolve strengthened his heart, but he could not stop from shivering. His winter cloak might have been made of lace, for all the warmth it gave him. Like the other dwobbits, Frodo wore fingerless gloves, a gift from Ori, but he wished that they were mittens instead. If his fingers were not buried in Sitka's coat, they would probably have fallen off already. Frodo was more grateful than ever for the warmth that the wolf maintained despite the frigid temperature.

Wolves were made for snow and ice. Hobbits were not.

With every inch of snow that fell, their progress was slowed, as the wolves' powerful legs pushed through deeper and deeper drifts. Snowflakes began to catch on his eyelashes, and Frodo slipped back until he was no longer sitting on Sitka, but lying on the wolf's back the way that Merry rode Denahi. That thought shook some of the weariness from him, and he strained his eyes to try and see his young cousin.

He may as well have been blind.

He lowered his head again miserably, and hoped that Denahi was able to manage the snow without his front leg.

Frodo wanted to go back. It seemed much more appealing to risk the mines, but he knew that they had to try, at least. The discomfort of a single hobbit would not turn them around. So, he held his tongue and hugged Sitka's neck. He wished that he could be hugging his aunt, and not just her wolf.

But that was now as likely as Bilbo forgiving him. Dís would be furious at his theft, and she was far better than Bilbo at holding a grudge. She would be furious that he let out her secret, that he told everyone of the baby. He swallowed, and dropped his face into Sitka's fur. The wolf stank of wet dog, but it was a little warmer. He sighed. His aunt might not understand, might now ever wish to be called his aunt again, but she was as dear as a mother to him, and this was as much for her as it was for Bilbo. For the world.

"We have to find shelter!" Boromir roared from the very back of the group, startling Frodo out of his thoughts.

Shelter. Yes, shelter would be nice.

"There is a slight cave ahead." Legolas' voice still managed to sound light and airy, yet it was not caught by the wind. "Just another mile or so."

Another mile? It may as well be another mountain.

His icy eyelashes began to pull together like magnets, and Frodo found it harder and harder not to fall asleep.

 _I'm… turning into Pippin,_ he thought, sighing softly.

Then, all of a sudden, he was hit in the small of the back, and his eyes ripped open.

"We're here." Gimli said gruffly, his beard full of snow. "It's not what we would call a cave, but it will do."

To Frodo's dismay, Gimli was right. The promised cave was little more than an overhang, and barely shelter from the wind and snow. A thin layer of white flakes had been blown in by the wind, and looked like one of Bilbo's lace doily's on Dís' granite counters. At the back, it was barely tall enough for a hobbit to stand, and the walls on either side were sparse, but it did seem wide and deep enough to fit the entire group in, wolves and pony included. The men would have to crouch, especially at the back, but that could not be helped.

Frodo scurried deep inside as quickly as he could, and sat with his back to the stone, Sam at his side. The rock was so cold it hurt, and both he and Sam shuffled quickly forward a little. They huddled together like the ice birds in one of Bofur's stories, and were soon joined by the Tooks. Pippin was stumbling almost blindly, and there were snowflakes clinging to his eyebrows and lashes. It would be funny if he did not look so close to frozen. Nelly's arm was wrapped around the small of his back, and he leant heavily on her until she helped him sit down next to Frodo.

With a sad smile, Frodo reached out and squeezed Pippin's hand. It was like ice, but his young cousin gave him a weak smile of his own and rested his head on Frodo's shoulder. He let out a sigh that misted in front of him, and closed his eyes. Beside him, Nelly hugged her knees to her chest and blew onto her red fingers.

"Are you alright, Nel?" he murmured.

"Never better," she replied wearily, snuggling up against Pippin as Bróin came and sat at her other side.

He and Gimli had fared better in the cold, but Bombur's son shivered a little as he shifted close to Nelly, and slung his arm over her shoulders. He was young, Bróin, and Frodo often had to remind himself that the dwarf was only in his early tweens (or at least would be, if he were a hobbit.) Still, there was a little more cheer in his grin and redness in his cheeks as he settled down with them. Gimli took Sam's other side, and Odo lay down beside him, but when Legolas came in he did not join their huddle. He sat a little further away, gazing out into the storm. He did not look particularly fussed by the snow, and Frodo found that he did not feel too fond of the elf in those moments.

The wolves slipped in next, filling up the spaces and lying close to the hobbits. Sokka, Fíli's wolf, lay across the feet of Frodo and Pippin, his sandy fur warming their toes despite being soaked from the snow, and a lump grew in Frodo's throat.

The moment Fíli had seen a blonde wolf pup in Lani's litter, he had cried out in delight and instantly claimed the wolf as his new best friend. Thorin had shaken his head in dismay, and Bilbo had lightly pointed out that the wolf usually chose its own companion, but Fíli had ignored them both and doted on the pup ever since. Sokka, as the prince named the golden wolf, was as loyal to Fíli as Luno was to Kíli, though they were not as inseparable. Sokka was more independent than Luno.

Frodo felt as though they had slapped Fíli in the face by bringing Sokka.

The hobbit sighed, and watched Aragorn duck into cave and sit as far in as he could, without scraping his head against the rough ceiling.

Well, at least they were all alive. Frodo closed his eyes and let his head drop onto his knees, but the moment it did he sat up with a jolt.

"Wait – where's Merry? And Boromir?" he asked, panic clawing its way up his throat. The others looked as surprised and afraid as he felt, but even as Frodo tried to get his frozen limbs to move, a pair of legs appeared at the cave's entrance.

"Here," said Boromir's voice, as the man appeared at the overhang. He was cradling Merry in his arms. The young hobbit was shivering, and his hooded face leant against Boromir's chest. Behind them, Denahi limped into the cave, supported by Kanna. "We are here. Denahi fell. The snow provided too much of a challenge, I fear. I did call to you, but no one could hear me."

"But what's wrong with Merry?" Pippin demanded, forcing open his half-close eyes. "Merry?"

"Cold'," said Boromir roughly, striding towards those sheltered at the back of the cave. "He is suffering from the cold."

"We're all suffering from the cold," protested Pippin. "Why don't you answer yourself, Merry?"

There was an awkward silence as Boromir looked pointedly at Aragorn. The ranger lowered his head, and Frodo's fingers dug into his arms. He thought he heard a soft groan from Merry, but it could have just been the moaning wind.

Beside him, Pippin began to panic. "Merry? Merry!"

"Calm down and light a fire," said Boromir, sitting cross legged with Merry in his lap. Frodo caught a glimpse of his cousin's face, and his breath froze in his lungs. Merry's face was icy pale, save only for blue lips and dark smudges beneath his eyes. But he was moving – Frodo could see his eyes roaming beneath his lids, and his face was slowly tilting towards the other hobbits. When Boromir looked up to see no one had moved, he barked, "Light a fire! Now!"

Bróin and Nelly fell forward, seizing their packs and pulling out the dried wood they had brought. Gimli scraped away the thin layer of snow in the centre of the cave, between the hobbits and the bigger folk. The trio they stacked the wood as best they could, before pulling out their tinder boxes. Meanwhile, Pippin crawled clumsily around the fire and sat by Merry's side.

Boromir was not idle. He had already stripped away Merry's sodden cloak and jacket, and then wrapped him in a spare blanket from the bottom of his own pack. Then, he began to speak, calmly yet firmly. "Wake up, Merry."

Frodo watched anxiously as Merry stirred just a little.

"Wake up," Pippin added, prodding Merry's nose. "Do wake up Merry."

Merry groaned, loudly.

"It's too windy!" moaned Nelly, as her small flame flickered out once more. Her eyes were moving to Merry, a deep fear within them, but her focus on her task did not wane.

Glancing up from Merry, Boromir paused for a moment, before pulling his shield from his back. Aragorn guessed his meaning in a moment, and took it quickly.

"The worst of the wind is from the North," he said, propping up the shield and packing it in place with snow. "That should shelter some of it. For the rest, we must use bodies. Come, Legolas, Gimli, Bróin. We can fare the cold better than the halflings, and so can the beasts."

Within minutes, the wolves, pony, men and dwarves had formed enough of a barrier to allow a small fire to light. Guilt sparked in Frodo's heart as Bróin began to shake again, but the young dwarf refused to move, and soon the fire grew large enough to warm them a little.

But fear was still sharp and cold in Frodo's heart, and only thawed when Merry opened his eyes a few minutes later. He gazed blearily at the fire and shifted, and then his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Wha'… wha' ha'ned?" he mumbled, as if still half stuck in dreams.

"You tell us," Boromir said, and Merry glanced up in surprise, his frown deepening as he noticed that he was cradled in the man's lap. A faint blush, hardly visible, crept onto his pale cheeks. "Denahi fell, and I found you beside him in the snow."

Merry reached clumsily for Denahi, who had rested beside him. The wolf nuzzled his hand, and licked it with a soft whine. "I, I th'nk I 'member," he said, his voice slurred. "I tumbled int'a the snow when 'e fell. He… trie' ta dig me ou' wi' his nose and his leg, but jus' buried me further."

The wolf howled mournfully, and Merry's fingers sank deeper into his fur.

"Was so tired. 'm so tired."

"Well, don't go back to sleep yet," said Boromir sharply. "You must eat something, and warm up first. If you do not, you may never wake again."

Pippin choked and Merry's eyes widened. Frodo squeezed his own eyes tightly shut. He had not wanted Merry and Pippin to come – he had not wanted any of his young cousins to come, and if they died on this forsaken mountain…

"S-sam," Bróin said, grinning despite chattering teeth. "You're on cooking tonight. I'm t-too busy being a wall."

"Right you are," said Sam, digging for his pots. As he began to throw water and some odd ingredients into the pan, Merry tried to sit up, only to fall back into Boromir's waiting arms.

"Stay still, lad," the man said with a wry smile. "We've got to keep you off the ground, away from the cold. How are you feeling?"

"Cold," Merry mumbled, blinking slowly. "Tired. Confused. My limbs don' wanna do wha' I tell 'em. An' I'm hungry."

"Very well," Boromir smiled wearily. "You will eat, and then we will keep you warm as best we can. But we must leave here as soon as this storm is over. We cannot stay here. It will be the death of the hobbits.

Glumly and dumbly, Frodo agreed, but he looked at Aragorn. The man's lips were pursed, but he quickly nodded.

"I do not wish to go through the mines, but regardless we must leave this mountain."

"How long do you think the storm will last?" Nelly's voice was far more childlike than usual, and carried a vulnerability Frodo had rarely heard from her.

"I do not know," said Aragorn. "Perhaps all night, but maybe longer."

"There is a fell voice on the air," added Legolas. "This storm may be the doing of the enemy."

"Or the mountain itself," growled Gimli. "Caradhras is no friend to the two legged. But it does not matter who the enemy is if we cannot fight him. We must go down the mountain as soon as can be, and that is that."

His words lingered in the air as if awaiting a challenge, but none came. None had the heart or energy to argue.

"I was just wondering, because, well…" Nelly took a deep breath. "We're going through the wood very quickly."

Frodo's neck jerked painfully as he looked towards the fire, and his heart sank like a stone into his stomach. She was right – the flames were voracious, and tearing through the wood faster than they ought to be.

Eyes narrowing, Boromir nodded slowly. "I suggest we put food first – something hot in our bellies will help keep the cold at bay. And Merry must be kept warm, more so then any of us. If the fire dies, we must simply hold on for as long as we can."

"Don't you go making a habit out of this, Merry," warned Pippin. "First the Barrow Downs, now this. You need to be more careful."

A few of them managed breathless laughs at Pippin's joking tone, and though Merry was one of them, Frodo was not. He did not miss the irony of Pippin telling Merry to be careful, nor the humour of such a lecturing tone, but he could not laugh at such close calls – not yet.

It was the quietest meal they had yet had. Frodo was too tired to talk, too cold to listen to any tales or songs, and it seemed that the others felt the same, save Legolas and Gimli. But Legolas was pensive, and spoke little, and Gimli did not appear to be in the mood to chat.

He knew that he ought to stay awake, to offer at least to take the first watch, but when Boromir said that it would be as good a time as ever to sleep, and Bróin offered to take the first watch, Frodo found that he did not have the strength to argue. His meagre portion of stew in his belly, Frodo lay down beside Pippin, his head pillowed by the leg of a wolf. Sitka, he thought.

Through closed eyelids, he could still see the flames flickering, and hoped that if they died before the morning, the fellowship would not join them.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, I know there's been little change from the previous version. Without further ado, let's go onto the next!**


	27. Chapter 27: The Descent

**The second part of our double-bill! I hope you enjoy!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Descent**

The most important part of being the best friend of a fiercely independent female warrior hobbit was protecting her without making a big deal about it.

Bróin knew that there were some things that Nelly could never do as easily as dwarves could. She did not need someone to do things for her, but she could do with shielding from the unrelenting cold, and she would need someone to make sure she did not slip from sleep into unconsciousness.

So Bróin did not sleep that night. Instead, he spent the dark, cold hours with his arm around Nelly's shoulders, and his other hand resting on Merry's wrist. The whole company were snuggled up close to each other, and close to the wolves, too, and as he watched the fire slowly dwindle, Bróin knew that without their furry companions, the hobbits, and perhaps even the men, would have perished.

The thought made his guts tie themselves in knots, and he wiggled his cold fingers to check that they were just numb, and that Merry's heart was still beating.

The hobbit's breathing was stronger and deeper now than it had been, and he had been bundled in 'spare' cloaks and nestled between Denahi and Koda before Boromir would let him sleep again. It had made Bróin all the more grateful that Boromir was here. If Bróin had found Merry cold and white and unmoving the snow, he would not have known what to do. If Merry had died –

Bróin shuddered, and tried to shrink back into his cloak. His coat was tucked over Pippin's knees, and he missed it, but he knew that he would survive the snow either way. His suffering was infinitely better than Pippin dying. Boromir and Aragorn were both shivering, having leant inner cloaks to the hobbits, but Gimli was simply dozing on the other end of the line of hobbits, his coat over Frodo's knees, and cloak over Sam. The older dwarf's nose and ears were very red, but Odo was lying against his back, sheltering him from the wind, and given that he was decades closer to adulthood than Bróin, he was not suffering so much.

Legolas did not seem to be suffering at all. At first, he had paced the front of the cave gracefully, as if he had not a care in the world. He had only sat down when Aragorn murmured something to him in elvish. Whatever he had said, Bróin was glad for it, for when Legolas resumed his place beside Aragorn the wind had less routes to Bróin and the hobbits.

By Mahal, it was cold.

"That's your trouble, Bróin," sighed his mother's voice in his mind. "You think you're all grown up, but you're not, and whether or not you like it there are things your body simply cannot do yet."

It had been five years ago that she had said that to him, but Bróin found he could not remember why. He sighed. The fire was dying, but they had no more wood. He had tossed on the last twig half an hour ago. In the dimming light, it was getting harder to keep his eyes open.

But he had to. He had the most important watch of all – Bróin had to watch the hobbits. Make sure they were breathing. A night without sleep would not kill him, nor even slow him much. He would not let it, not when the risks were so high.

With a snore, Boromir shifted in his sleep, and a gust of wind cracked in like a whip, lashing out what remained of the fire. Gasping in dismay, the young dwarf carefully moved his arm off of Nelly and then lunged for the fire, his hands lingering over the hot coals as he tried to figure out what to do. Morning was still hours off, he had to keep the fellowship warm –

Desperately, Bróin blew on the coals, heart stuttering as their edges glowed. "Please," he whispered, stoking them with his fingers. He could not tell if they burnt from hot or cold. "Please, please, please!"

A slight flame flickered, but no matter how Bróin pushed the charred wood or how many times he threw sparks down with his flint and tinderbox, it would not grow, and in a matter of minutes it was dead, and there was not even the glow of a distant flame.

"No," he whispered, but his words did nothing other than cloud the air. "Dammit!"

Already, Bróin could feel how much colder it was, and the dark did not help either. He glanced over at the hobbits, and saw Nelly and Pippin begin to shiver again.

"Think, think, think!" he growled under his breath, looking around desperately for any more fuel. He could burn his clothes, or his food, but that would be counterproductive. He had not brought anything more than he needed, there was no surplus so spare.

Maybe he could use the coals and ashes themselves? They were still hot. He heard Merry moan in his sleep, and then Bróin scrambled to his bag, looking desperately for a bag of some sort that he could throw them into, but then his hand fell on something else and he paused.

His water bottles.

He paused for a long moment – too long a moment, heat and time were wasting. Seizing the two skeins, he crawled to the fire and buried them in the ashes. The tough leather did not burn, though an odd smell was given out.

 _Not the traditional hot water bottle_ , he thought, _but desperate times…_

Bróin only knew that time was passing by counting Merry's heartbeats. The hobbit's wrist was getting a little cold, so Bróin tucked it up under the wolf, but kept his own two fingers in place no matter how awkward the positioning was. Then he looked back at Nelly. Her nose and ears were bright red, but the rest of her face was pale, and even in sleep her mouth was drawn into a straight line. She had never much liked the cold.

When he thought they might have caught some heat, Bróin reached for the bottles, only to cry out softly in dismay. They were cold as rock, and the ashes little warmer than the snow. His eyes prickled with angry tears, but Bróin took a deep breath and banished them.

No, he could not lose his cool. Could not prove that he was too young for this – he had to act Frodo's age, not his own.

Besides, if he started crying like a baby now, that would only make life more difficult for the others. Instead, he threw the bottles back into his bag, dusting his belongings with ash, and returned to Nelly's side. She stirred as he sat down, her eyes opening slightly.

"Bro?" she whispered, her voice cracking in the cold.

"Aye, it's just me," he replied, wrapping his arm around her again. "You cold?"

She sighed and nodded, leaning against his chest. "You're warm."

He chuckled quietly. "Glad you think so." _Glad one of us does._

"'s it morning?"

"No, we've got a while yet." Bróin sighed. "Go back to sleep, Nell."

"Mm, alright," she mumbled, and within a few moments her breath was slow and even again.

Bróin stared right to the end of the line, where Sam was sleeping beside Gimli. It seemed that at some point of the night, the hobbit had begun to use the dwarf's arm as a pillow, and he was shifting and snuffling uncomfortably in his sleep.

 _Good,_ thought Bróin, _easy to check he's doing alright_.

His gaze moved onto Frodo, whose back was pressed against Sam's, and arms slung around Pippin. The young Baggins was breathing – his chest was moving up and down, and Pippin's hair danced around his forehead at every breath. Fíli's wolf, Sokka, was lying on their legs, and Sitka was by their heads. Denahi was at Pippin's back, separating him slightly from Merry, Nelly and Bróin.

Pippin was snuggled up against Frodo, and if the Baggins' position was accidental, the Took's was surely not. His face was half-hidden in Frodo's chest and his whole body was curled up in a little ball. One hand was wrapped in Frodo's cloak. The other reached under Denahi's chin, to rest against Merry's neck. He was frowning, deeply, but his breathing was also easy enough to spot.

Merry's breathing was a little harder to see, but it was still stronger than it had been, and Bróin could feel his pulse. He could feel Nelly's chest rising and falling beneath his arm.

Gimli was snoring, so there was no need to worry about him.

The two men were pale, and very still, but they were breathing deeply and often. Bróin could not tell if the elf was awake or asleep, but he was breathing, at least. Bróin was starting to get a headache from squinting through the dark. Even a dwarf might have trouble seeing such subtle movements in the blackness.

He let his head slide down to rest on Nelly's, and let his eyes close for a moment. But just a moment. Then he forced them open again, and when he had counted six hundred breaths, he looked up and checked each of his companions again.

Finally, a little light began to seep in from outside, and the others began to stir. Aragorn was the first to wake, and he shuddered as he sat up. Snow had fallen against his back all night, by the looks of it, but despite his pallor his eyes were sharp.

"When did the fire die?" he asked when he saw Bróin awake. His voice has huskier than usual.

"Around two hours past midnight, I would guess," said Bróin, pausing to yawn. "Without a clock, it was hard to say."

Dusting snow from his shoulders, Aragorn frowned. "You did not stay up all the night?"

Bróin shrugged. "No one stopped breathing."

Pausing with his arm still in the air, Aragorn stared at the dwarf with a strange look that Bróin hoped was not pity. "You did not have to do that."

Bróin kept his gaze steely as he stared back. "Everyone is breathing."

After a lingering moment, Aragorn bowed his head. "Very well. Thank you, Bróin."

Bróin nodded once, sharply, before pausing and smiling wearily. "You're welcome."

Staring out at the sky that was slowly turning a lighter shade of grey, Aragorn rubbed his beard. "We should wake the others. We must leave, and the sooner the better."

"Aye, I agree with that," muttered Bróin, shaking Nelly. "Up and at 'em, Nell."

She groaned and stretched, mumbling, "Wake Pippin first!"

Snorting, Bróin dug her in the ribs. "Up." Then, leaning over, he tapped Merry and Pippin on the nose each, and called, "Up, all of you. Frodo, Sam, Gimli, wake up." Mumbles and groans were all that replied. The dwarf rolled his eyes at Aragorn, who was rousing Boromir, and yelled, "Breakfast!"

Immediately eyes opened and folk scrambled upright, albeit slower than they usually did.

"Wha's for breakfast?" slurred Pippin, looking utterly bedraggled.

"Snow," replied Bróin. "And some slightly stale bread."

"You can keep the snow," said Merry with a shudder. Bróin was glad to hear that there was a little more strength in his voice, though it still rasped slightly. "It's cold enough as it is."

"And you're hogging all the blankets," Pippin commented, though Bróin could see his hand tightening around Merry's sleeve. "I agree with Merry. No snow for me, please."

"You will have to face the snow, whether you eat it or not," said Legolas, who had risen when Bróin was not looking. He was standing by the mouth of the cave, staring out. "There is a drift over our path taller than even Aragorn."

Bróin's heart sank, at he was not the only one. The hobbits let out a chorus of dismay.

"How will we get down?" cried Frodo.

Boromir stood, and joined Legolas at the entrance, peering out at the snowdrift. "Curse this mountain," he spat. "It does not want us to reach the ground alive."

Behind him, Bróin heard Sam mutter, "Oughn't we leave the cursing until we're off the mountain?"

"Well, we shall have to dig," continued the man. "Aragorn, I think that between you and I we may forge a path?"

Seeing no other choice, they all shared a miserable breakfast together in the cave, before the men and three of the wolves set out into the sea of snow. The prancing elf princess, who of course could walk atop the snow itself, went ahead of them, guiding Aragorn and Boromir in case they tunnelled right off the mountain.

And the dwarves and hobbits waited.

And waited.

Bróin yawned, and leant against the back of the cave. Catching sight of him, Frodo slipped over, and spoke quietly, so as not to alert the others. "Are you alright?"

"Me? Why wouldn't I be?" Bróin frowned. "At least I am no worse than any of you."

Frodo was not so easily fooled. He was Bilbo's nephew, after all. "You didn't sleep last night." It was not a question.

Bróin shrugged. "I'll be fine."

"Take a nap," Frodo suggested, and his eyes were burning with sympathy. "I will make sure no one stops breathing."

Bróin breathed in sharply and wished that he had not – cold air tore down his nose like a knife. He rolled up his nose, almost sneezed, and then recovered, staring at the hobbit. "You heard that."

Frodo nodded sombrely. "I was already awake. I did not realise you were until Aragorn spoke, or I would have joined you."

For a moment, a sudden thought darted into Bróin's mind – a thought he had been ignoring all night.

What if I stop breathing?

But no. He was a dwarf. The cold could not kill him so easily, and his hobbits would never allow it anyway.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, glancing around the cave. "I should be doing, something…"

"We are waiting," sighed Frodo. "And about as useful as shoes in the Shire. Get some sleep while you can, Bro."

"Alright, Frodo," Bróin replied, smiling wearily. He slid down into a sitting position against the wall and dropped his head onto his knees. Exhaustion was turning his limbs to lead now that he allowed it to, and his eyes felt as though they would never open again.

It was so cold.

Vaguely, he heard someone call him, and he tried to stir, but then a hand rested on his shoulder and he heard Frodo's voice. "Let him sleep. No, I mean it Nell. Why? Because I said so, Pippin, hush up…"

As if someone was closing a door, Frodo's voice grew quieter, and Bróin was sucked down into a sleep where he almost felt warm.

All too soon, Frodo shook him awake, and the cold claimed him again.

"The others are back," Frodo said, and Bróin sat up. Something fell from his shoulders and slipped onto the floor beside him.

He frowned, looking down at three cloaks and two coats. One coat and cloak were his, but the others…"Where did these come from?"

"No idea," said Frodo. "I'll keep that one for you." He swiped up a cloak that Bróin recognised as Gimli's, and then Pippin and Sam wordlessly picked up the other coat and cloak and put them on themselves.

"Did you know," said Pippin, as he reclaimed Bróin's coat, "that you lose more heat when you sleep?"

"'s that so?" Bróin grinned slowly, and Pippin nodded.

"Aye, it is."

It warmed Bróin's stomach that they took the cloaks and coats back, and that they made such a small deal of things. He forgot, sometimes, that the courtesy he extended Nelly was given to him by all his hobbit cousins.

"We've forged a good a path as we may, but it has fallen in in places," sighed Aragorn. Sympathy churned Bróin's gut – not only did the man look exhausted, but he was soaked from the chest downwards. Boromir looked much the same. "It would be safer if the little folk ride."

"Righty-ho," Bróin declared around a yawn, "let's go."

"There is just one more thing," said Boromir hesitantly. "I do not think that Denahi should carry Merry down the mountain."

Bróin's stomach flipped over, and he looked quickly at Merry and his wolf. Denahi bared his teeth and growled, his hackles raising, while Merry put his hand on Denahi's shoulder.

"Why?" he demanded.

"There is no denying that he is a strong and powerful beast, but surely it is wiser for him to conserve his strength for ground that is better suited to him." Aragorn's voice was very placating, and Bróin saw Merry slump a little.

"I," he paused, then sighed. "Should I ride Kanna?"

Denahi whined sadly, nestling at Merry's nose. The hobbit wrapped his arms around the wolf's neck and kissed his ears, but shook his head.

"I will carry you," said Boromir. "It will be faster, and safer. I will be able to make sure you do not slip back into the Cold Sleep." Merry shivered, and then nodded. "We will go first. Get on my back – I will need my arms."

Before he knew it, Bróin was riding down the mountain. The path the men had forged was more like a tunnel, with tremendous walls of snow on either side. The snow had stopped falling, but the wind was as vicious as ever, and threw down loose snow from above. Beneath the feet of the wolves, the tunnel's floor was beginning to turn to slush. Towards the back of the group, where he was, muddy, icy water began to splash up Nyla's sides, onto his legs. His boots and trousers protected his legs, but he saw Sam ahead of him, and he wished the hobbits had not decided to wear trousers.

But, to Bróin's amazement, they were able to pursue the path without incident. In fact, after a few hours of tense but unremarkable riding, the arrived at a tight bend. When they rounded it, they found but an inch of snow over their path. It was as if a great hand had come down, and swept the rest of the snow from the path with one mighty swoop. Beyond, Bróin could see the forest again, and the sky, and things other than snow and ice, and he beamed, scratching Nyla behind her ears.

"Good girl," he crooned. "Good girl."

To his surprise, it looked as though it was now dusk. Of course, the time had been hard to fathom during the storm - perhaps dawn had been shrouded by cloud and darkness when they were in the cave. They surely could not have ridden for a whole day, but the sun was definitely sinking. They were still a good deal up the mountain, maybe two or three hours from its base, but the air was a little warmer and clearer. They could do this. They were safe.

But even as those thoughts passed through his mind, there was a great rumble around them and beneath them, and he turned to see a great cloud of snow rush down the mountain, and swallow Aragorn, Gimli and Odo whole.

With cries of dismay, the fellowship darted back, but Aragorn burst from the drift with a shudder, and Odo charged through the snow and shook himself so hard that Gimli fell off, landing on his backside by Bróin's feet with snow stuck to his beard and wide, white eyes.

Bróin could not help it.

He laughed.

Scowling, Gimli twisted around and shook his fist at the mountain. "We're leaving, you stupid lump of rock, leave us alone!"

"Shh!" Sam gasped, and Bróin rolled his eyes.

"Don't be so supsersti-"

"No!" Sam shook his head and pointed further down the mountain. " _Look!"_

Bróin looked down, and felt as though he had been punched in the throat. "Oh, _no_ …"

Moving closer and closer towards the base of the mountain was what looked like a swarm of flies, driving down a road from the north. Within hours, they would reach the path that lead up the mountain. Within hours, they could cut the fellowship off altogether.

"Orcs," cursed Legolas. "At least three dozen, and the same number of wargs!"

"We must move," whispered Aragorn hoarsely, "now, if we are not to be trapped on this cursed hill!"

"Look!" gasped Nelly, seizing Bróin's arm and pointing a little further north east. There was another group, another gang of travellers that looked like ants from this distance. They, too, were heading south, and heading towards the orcs, but what or who they were, Bróin could not say.

He was beginning to get a very bad feeling about this.

Then Legolas swore. " _Amarth faeg!_ It is Mithrandir, and your people."

"What?" Merry cried, leaning out from Boromir's arms to gaze at the sights below. "They wouldn't, it's too risky!"

Bróin shared a glance with Nelly, and knew that she was thinking exactly the same as he. They, at least, had expected this.

"Go," Aragorn urged them, crouching low as he began to buffet the hobbits further down the mountain. "Go! They can care for themselves, but we must run, or we will be slaughtered by the night's end! If we hurry we may reach the ground before the orcs spy us."

"Wonderful," muttered Boromir, his eyes fixed on the orcs. "Where are we running?"

"Moria," said Frodo, his voice firm as he dug his heels into Sitka's flank and urged him onward. "We have not time to fly anywhere else."

"That's true," growled Boromir, though he looked as though he would rather say anything else.

Denahi let out a frustrated whine and leapt at the man, pushing him backwards with one great paw and seizing Merry's collar with gentle teeth. Boromir released the hobbit instantly. For a moment, Merry hung from the wolf's mouth like a puppy's favourite toy, and Bróin laughed. Then, Merry quickly disengaged the wolf's teeth and slid onto his back.

"Let's go," he said.

And they ran.

* * *

The wind whipped Frodo's face like a thousand lashes as Sitka tore down the mountain. Reaching the base before the orcs could see them looked impossible, until the wolf that bore him skidded to a halt, given out a soft whine, and then careened off the side of the cliff.

His heart pounding, Frodo realised that Sitka had found a winding semblance to a trail that cut off the last league or so off their northward path. Not only did it stop them from having to double back on themselves to go further south, but given the curve of the mountain, it shielded them from view from the North. Odo struggled slightly, but the stubbornness of Gimli's pony was winning out, and he trotted down as fast as his little legs could manage. Glóin had always said that the beast was surely half goat.

For the men, it proved more difficult, but both were agile enough to find the crags and footholds needed to descend. Despite a few wobbles, their feet failed to falter, and though they did not share the grace of Legolas, both Aragorn and Boromir reached the flat ground beneath the mountain mere seconds after the others.

"We cannot afford to linger," said Legolas, running on with a sympathetic smile as Boromir leant against the stone for a moment, clutching his side.

The man let out a groan-like growl of annoyance and glared over his shoulder, but then he began to run again. Frodo was impressed – the man's fatigue was etched into his face, yet he showed no sign of stopping.

Not that they had a choice.

Silent save for their footfalls and laboured breaths, the fellowship sped south as fast as the path would allow. At times, they were forced to slow for the wolves to seek a clearer road, but for the most part the creatures wound ways through trees and bracken that even Aragorn would have trouble detecting.

For his part, Frodo was trying to keep an eye out for the subtle signs Balin and Thorin had told him lay near the gates of Moria, but it was hard to pay such close attention when every instinct screamed to fly as fast as maybe, and put as much distance as possible between him and the orcs, damning the destination.

But no – to damn the destination was to damn the entire company, so Frodo had to keep his mind sharp. He peered over his shoulder, hair whipping across his face, and made sure everyone was still with him.

He could have used Aragorn's help, but the man was lagging towards the back of the group – he was competing with running wolves, and barely keeping up. He and Boromir were falling further behind Nelly and Bróin by the minute. Even at a distance, Aragorn's face looked blank, and Boromir was stumbling far more often than usual.

They should not have to run – and they could not maintain this pace. Not for much longer. Frodo stroked Sitka's neck with his fist, drawing it back in the motion that meant slow down. Immediately, the wolf's long strides shortened, and he began to reduce his pace.

"Why are we stopping?" asked Merry, from his right.

"We're not," said Frodo. "Just slowing. We have yet some distance to go – it would be best to pace ourselves."

Merry nodded, and the rhythm of the group stumbled for a while, before falling into a pace that was a brisk walk for Aragorn and Boromir. Frodo let the men set the speed – he was tempted to go slower, but they seemed able to catch their breath as it was.

Unfortunately, it soon became impossible to travel so quickly, even with the will and strength of the men. By leaving the path, they had no clear route to follow, and as they drew further south, even the wolves began struggling to find a way. In some places, they had to pause for up to half an hour to work through low branches and thorn bushes taller than the hobbits.

When night fell, thick and fast, they had no choice but to rest, unable to fight on without light. They set watches of three at a time, but only Pippin caught more than an hour's restless sleep. As soon as the sky lightened a fraction, and the dwarves, elf and wolves could see a little, they began trying to move on, but it was slow work.

A horrifically nerve-wracking hour was spent just before noon, when they were trapped by rock, trees and briars on all sides and forced to double back almost a mile. By the time they found a way southward again, Frodo's heart was beating somewhere up in his throat. If the orcs were on a road, if his _family_ were on a road, either group could be upon them at any time. From what they had seen on the mountain, both groups were only hours behind – a day's ride at most – and if they had not faced the set-backs the fellowship had faced…

Finally, Frodo caught sight of something through the thick trees – the ripple of wind on black water.

 _"Apparently, a great, dark pool has grown before the gates," said Balin one cold night, smiling as the young hobbits around him leant in closer. "A black pool, in which dwelt several large serpents, if Lóni's eyes did not deceive him. We believe, at present, that the Sirannon has been dammed – by nature or by will we do not know – and flooded the valley. But, the gates are still reachable, and still visible only when touched by moon or star."_

"This way!" Frodo cried, his voice catching with relief. He nudged Sitka with his right knee to encourage him left, and the wolf bounded through with renewed vigour. They padded out onto a small stretch of dirt before the edge of the dark pool, and Frodo's breath caught in his throat.

He had seen sketches and maps of Moria and its gates before, but they had been drawn before the waters of the Sirannon filled the valley. The pool was maybe two hundred feet wide, and on the other side to the company lay what looked like a small pebble beach, maybe six-foot-wide, and the base of the mountain. Frodo's keen eyes quickly identified what Balin had taught him to look for – a section of smooth, blank rock, flanked by two large holly trees – the door.

They had made it.

And Frodo was terrified.

 _Fíli was lying in a hysterical Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain Frodo did not know._

This was the lake. This was the mountain.

He had tried so hard to convince himself that his nightmare was just a dream, that the visions that had haunted his sleep since Tom Bombadil's could not be true, but this sight – a sight he had never before seen in waking life – was the exact backdrop to Fíli's doom. The placement of the rocks, the jutting crags at the mountain's base, even the large pebbles on the bank of the lake – they were all familiar.

In his dream, Fíli had died here.

Hobbits had no powers of prophecy, surely, but Bombadil's house was odd, and if there was some magic in the air that had allowed him to see the future –

No. No, that could not be the future. Frodo had risked the world to make sure that would not be the future.

 _But Fíli may be coming anyway – they are following you._

Frodo's blood felt cold as Caradhras.

"At last!" Merry gasped, making Frodo jump as Denahi drew alongside him. Shivering lightly, Frodo dragged his eyes away from the scene before him to glance at Merry. To his surprise, a huge smile had broken out across his cousin's wan, weary face. After the disaster of Caradhras, such a smile almost warmed Frodo's heart to the place.

Almost.

"Let's just get inside," he muttered, channelling Thorin as best he could in an attempt to keep his voice calm and strong. The result was tinted with impatience, and Merry stared at him quizzically. Frodo just shook his head slightly, and urged Sitka forward.

To get to the door they would have to cross the water, but just to the left there was a narrow creek that did not look too deep. Taking a deep breath and raising his chin, Frodo led the group straight for it.

But the moment the wolf's foot touched the water, Sitka let out a snarl and drew it back up, backing away from the creek. Though his first thought was to dig his heel in a little tighter, Frodo had learnt to trust the wolves' instincts over the years. He leant forward, stroking Sitka's ear.

"What's wrong?" he murmured. "We must cross, Sitka, or we'll be trapped."

Whining, Sitka tossed his head and stepped back again, returning to the tree line before taking a running leap across the creak. The other wolves followed suit, refusing to touch the water, but the pony, elf and men had no choice but to wade through. The men pulled faces and slipped on slimy rocks, and Legolas stared at the ripples with morbid curiosity, but they all crossed without incident. Odo snorted, but kept his nose high in the air when Gimli patted his flank.

When they came to the other side, they all dismounted, and the wolves flopped down onto the damp ground, panting heavily. Boromir shook his head and brushed his hair from his face. "So, where are these doors?"

Trying to forget any trace of his nightmare, Frodo walked slowly to the two, tall holly trees, and placed his hand on the stone between them. "Here," he murmured. "They are here. But we cannot see them until they are touched by the light of moon or star."

"Of course we can't," said Legolas under his breath.

"Can we enter, without the light?" pressed Aragorn, striding to Frodo's side. "If we are forced to wait for nightfall we may receive company."

"Perhaps, if we had the password," Frodo pursed his lips and glanced at Merry. "Do you remember?"

Furrowing his brow, Merry stared at the mountain for a long moment, before sighing and hanging his head. "No."

Frodo cursed under his breath, but Boromir was not so quiet.

"What? We ran all this way, like rabbits from a wolfpack, only to be trapped for lack of a password? We would have had more chance if we aimed for the gap of Rohan." The man threw his small pack to the floor, and ran both hands through his hair.

"Not necessarily," said Merry, sighing and sitting down beside Denahi. "The password's the answer to a question – Balin was telling us about it. This door was built so that the dwarves could trade with the elves and men of Hollin, so the question is written in elvish, in Moon Runes on the door. Those who know the answer can get in."

"And how will we know the answer?"

Somewhere close by, a strange wolf howled, and the group's wolves leapt to their feet, hackles rising. Merry went pale, but answered nevertheless. "Balin said the questions were often subtle on doors like these. They were posed to look like statements or warnings, when they were actually riddles."

"Wonderful," growled Boromir. "There are wolves coming and we must wait for twinkling stars to show a riddle."

"Look, we're doing the best we can here," said Sam hotly, striding over with his chest puffed up. "So, you best be remembering that Frodo and Merry aren't fools! Mister Balin's told us hundreds of dwarvish riddles over the years, and they know thousands of hobbit ones besides. You can't expect them to just pick the right one out of thin air! This is the best hope we had, and we decided that on the mountain!"

Boromir turned to Sam, and though irritation still flickered in his eyes, his face softened. "I know, Sam. Do not mistake my frustration for anger at Frodo or Merry."

Before Sam could smile back, the strange wolf howled again, and the hairs on the back of Frodo's neck sprang up. It was not a wolf – that was the call of a warg.

And it was answered more howls.

Snarling and growling, the wolves of Erebor began to circle the bank, hemming the fellowship in closer and closer towards the trees, and the invisible door, like sheepdogs sensing a threat to their flock.

"Aragorn," Nelly asked, her voice deceptively light. "How far away would you say that those wargs are?"

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. "It is hard to say. They could be miles from here, yet they could also be much closer."

"Aye, that's what I thought." Nelly took a deep breath and squinted up at the sky. "So, it looks like it's about three hours past noon…" she trailed off, counting on her fingers. Then she sighed, and leant back against the mountain. "They could be here before nightfall, but they might not, and there's nowhere else to go. We're stuck."

"Well," sighed Pippin, "I suppose the others could catch up with us first. At least then we'd have reinforcements."

"No," snapped Frodo, his hands diving into his pockets as everyone turned to stare at him. He softened his tone. "I don't think I'm ready to see them again just yet. Do you?"

Pippin pouted, and slumped down against the wall. After a long moment, Frodo sighed and joined him.

Gimli cleared his throat, and spoke rather gruffly. "I've just had a thought."

"Exciting," said Bróin. "How are you coping with such a strange, new sensation?"

Ignoring Bombur's son, Gimli sighed and scratched Odo's ears. "We can't take you into the mines with us, can we?" The pony whickered, and began to snuffle the dwarf's beard. "There'll be stairs and thin ledges and all sorts – hard enough for those on two legs, and you're not quite as flexible as the wolves."

Frodo winced. Odo had been a part of the family since his birth. To simply set him free, turn him away after everything that they had been through…

 _Poor Gimli…_

"But I can't just let you prance off with wargs at every turn," continued the dwarf, taking a deep breath and then turning to Legolas. "So – how much will it cost for you to do a fancy blessing on my pony?"

The elf raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I want you to bless Odo, and I want you to do it now. I want you to make sure he gets home safely. So how much will it cost me?" said Gimli, planting his feet square on the ground and folding his arms across his chest.

Legolas smiled slightly. "It will cost you nothing."

"Oh?" Gimli raised his own eyebrows.

"Nothing," repeated Legolas. "We are friends, are we not? Even if we weren't, I would not put a price on the life of an innocent animal."

Despite himself, Frodo smiled slightly. Over the past few days the elf had been rather uptight, and not quite as friendly as he had been in the past. His bickering with Gimli had been harsher and less playful than usual – it was good to see that Legolas was thawing a little.

Holding onto that small piece of comfort with both hands, Frodo settled down to wait. At first, the day did not seem to want to wane at all. They removed what baggage Odo had carried and split it between them, sent the pony off into the woods to the south, and shared a cold meal together without the shadows seeming to shift an inch. But slowly, slowly, dark began to creep upon them.

At first, Frodo feared that it would make things worse – clouds were shifting through the sky, blanketing early stars as the sun sank low and dimmed the whole world. Twilight darkened, and he held his breath.

And then, Legolas cried out wordlessly, and pointed at the wall.

Frodo scrambled to his feet and whirled around, in time to see soft beams of moonlight shine on thin tendrils of silver in the stone.

Mithril. They had found it.

As if an invisible hand was painting with starlight, lines began to appear in the shape of a door, along with beautiful patterns that Frodo would have stared at for hours, if he was not so frantically trying to decipher the elvish letters above the door.

To his horror, they were not Sindarin characters – they were from an older time, and he could not read the lettering, let alone the words. He could not remember Balin saying anything about a different kind of elvish –

 _But of course Balin would not know,_ Frodo thought desperately, _Elvish is elvish is elvish, to Balin…_

The wolves began to whine uncomfortably, but Frodo could not heed them now.

Aragorn stepped forward, scratching his beard. " _Ennyn Durin Aran Moria: pedo mellon a minno._ The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter."

"Is that what it says?" asked Frodo quickly.

Aragorn nodded, glancing at the elf. "Does it not, Legolas?"

Legolas inclined his head, and a flood of relief warmed Frodo from nose to toe. At almost that exact moment, Merry gasped. "I remember! All we need say is –"

 _"Stop!"_

The warmth that had washed over Frodo mutated into the sensation of beetles, swarming through his veins and biting every inch of flesh they could find.

 _Bilbo._

 **So, we're very nearly caught up now. I hope that when we are, you guys will be able to feel more excited, involved and engaged with the story, but in the meantime I hope you enjoyed the tweaked chapters I've been able to prepare for today. Please do leave a review if you feel so inclined, it means the world to me.**

 **Until Monday, take care!**


	28. Chapter 28: The Trench

**Hello! Monday's here, and so am I! Again, I have two chapters for you today, though one is entirely new! I really hope that you enjoy them both, and forgive any typos! As always, I'm running a wee bit late and should really already be in bed.**

 **Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Trench**

Something was wrong. Glóin could feel it, a subtle tugging in his gut that set his hair on end. He did not know what it was exactly, but the higher he climbed, the faster his heart urged him to ride. There was danger ahead, but something beneath it. A reason to speed into the unknown. To hasten up the High Pass. His pony was uncertain, but followed its master's command. Lani rode beside him, her ears pricked up and her hackles raised. She made no noise.

Glóin would have felt better had she growled.

He did not like chasing gut feelings up dark mountains with no back up, mainly because his gut feelings tended to be rather accurate. There were clouds swirling overhead, drifting slowly up from the South – from Caradhras. He shuddered. That was not a mountain he would ever like to cross. The stories had ever been enough to chase him away. That said, the High Pass did not have a much better reputation.

So far, the road had not been too bad, but it was growing steeper, and more barren. There was a large wall of rock on his right, but he could see the top of it. Just ahead, there was a bottleneck in the path – a place where another wall swept down and narrowed the path. In such a place only one or two would be able to ride abreast.

Not that it would matter. Glóin was alone, after all.

Lani stopped, a single paw raised in the air, and her ears pricked up, twitching. At once, Glóin yanked on the reins, perhaps a little too hard, but his blessed pony stopped dead without so much as a whicker.

It was silent as a tomb. Even the wind seemed to hush, though it kept its strength, and its bite. Glóin slowly drew his axe. The pony stamped its feet.

The wolf darted forward onto a nearby boulder, and then leapt over the wall on the right, disappearing onto the other side.

Half a second later, the silence was shattered. The shriek of orcs, unmistakeable and deafening, ripped through the air, and Glóin's pony let out a shriek of its own, tossing his head and preparing to flee. But Glóin had already dismounted, and he charged after his canine companion.

He climbed the boulder and leapt onto the wall, staring down to see where she had gone.

For a moment, he was astounded by what he saw.

It was a trench – a natural one, if he was not mistaken. The other wall was that of the mountain itself. But it was not being used for any natural purpose now. It was teeming with goblins, at least two dozen, scrambling over each other towards Lani. They grasped at weapons with their scrawny hands, but Lani was quicker than death, and sank her teeth into the nearest goblin's jugular.

"Du Bekar!" Glóin roared, jumping down from the wall and bringing his axe down through the skull of the first foe he could reach. And then they were upon him, and more poured down from further up the trench, and he no longer had a spare thought to count them.

Filthy hands grappled at him, but he twisted around and threw his bodyweight upon them with such a force that three goblins cracked their skulls against the very rock they sheltered in. He swung at another, but after cleaving through its neck, his axe crashed against the stone, sending reverberations into his spine, and he cursed. It was too large a weapon for such a space – he needed knives.

Embedding the axe in an enemy's chest for safe keeping, Glóin pulled two daggers from their sheaths in his belt. He span, dodging a blow from a scimitar, ducked beneath an oncoming sword, and returned blows of his own, taking down three, four, six orcs in a matter of seconds.

But a blow struck the back of his head, dull and heavy and painful as sin, and he felt thick arms wrap around his neck, and the heavy weight of a goblin on his back. With a snarl, Glóin threw himself backwards, and the goblin shrieked as it crashed into the wall. He thrust his weight back, and stabbed over his shoulder with only training and a prayer to guide his hand. The arms around his neck let go.

A few feet away, Lani was tearing through goblins as if they were lambs, but they were teeming upon her like flies on a corpse, and he could hear her growls and snarls growing higher, and more frantic.

They were outnumbered.

Each foe he cut down was replaced by two more, and they would not wait their turn to die like civil folk. Instead, they swarmed liked insects, insects with blades as wicked as their master.

And one blade found its mark.

Glóin bellowed as a short dagger drove into the soft flesh of his inner elbow, and for a moment, he was blinded by white hot pain. He felt the knife wrenched from his body, felt his muscle tear and his skin rip, felt tears hot in his eyes – but then he felt a sure of something else. Adrenalin, rushing from the very depths of his soul to his mind and his heart, clearing his eyes.

And his mind.

 _Balin's gift._

Glóin threw off the hands that grasped at him, and retreated. His axe was feet away, if he could get to his axe –

A blade was thrown at his spine and hit true, but his mail was the best one could find, save Mithril, and the knife simply fell to the ground, leaving naught more than a bruise. Lani howled, an awful shriek of pain that almost turned him, but Glóin ran faster. His axe – it was there –

His fingers closed around the hilt, held it so that its blade swung by his feet. Reached up towards the gem that sat in the base. Towards Balin's gift.

The goblins were almost upon him.

He wrenched the ruby free, breathing heavily as a slick, clear liquid poured over the edge of his beloved weapon, over his hands. He spun the axe slowly, as slowly as he could bear to.

 _"Go too fast and you'll destroy your axe,"_ Balin had warned him.

The first goblin reached him, and he grabbed it by the hair and bashed its face into the wall. Then, he grabbed the ruby once more, and turned it over to expose the flint fused to its underside.

"If this doesn't work, Balin, I'll kill you," he muttered.

He struck the flint against the pummel of the axe.

It lit up in an instant, blue flames leaping out with the ferocity of a dragon. He could feel the heat on his hands, but they did not burn – just as Balin promised. It was uncomfortable, but not unbearable.

Not for a dwarf, in any case.

He grinned.

Letting out a roar to rival Smaug's, he charged, but it no longer seemed like the odds were tipped against him. Screeching in terror, the goblins crushed each other in an attempt to escape from the burning blade, but if the fire did not catch him, the blade of the axe did.

It did not matter that Glóin could not fully wield his axe, that his movements were compromised, or that he was fighting single handed. It was easier to chop off heads when weapons clattered to the floor, and his enemy fled before him, and the flames leapt from orc to orc, and soon the scent of burning flesh was pouring into the night.

A whimper caught his attention, and he looked to see Lani, cringing away from him as he advanced. Her ears were pressed against the back of her head, and blood, both red and black, was smeared around her muzzle.

"Get out of here!" he ordered, and at once she bolted, racing in the opposite direction to the orcs, back the way that they had come.

He turned back to the retreating goblins. Only five or six were still fleeing. The others were dead, or writing on the ground in flames, or bleeding. Already, his adrenalin was beginning to seep away, and the flames were waning too.

With a final cry of exertion, he pushed his legs faster, and raised his axe high.

He cut down the last of his foes in two strokes.

And then he fell against the side of the trench, breathing heavily and staring at the fire he held in his hands. Before his very eyes, the flames shrank to those of little candles, and then spluttered out entirely.

He cast his mind back to his last birthday.

 _"This is where the oil lives," Balin said, showing Glóin the oil well beneath the ruby. "It is a blend from the Orocarni Mountains, very rare and worth its weight in gold. Because this oil will produce flames as deadly as any, but protect whatever it coats from burning. So, in theory, you can wield a flaming axe without losing your weapon – or its integrity. If you remove this ruby, the oil will travel down these grooves here, in the handle of the axe and the pummel. You ought to turn it a few times, slowly, for good measure – you want to make sure the whole thing is covered, and your hands, too, that's important. Then, you use this flint here, and bam!"_

 _With that, Balin held his own hand over a nearby candle, and it immediately burst into flames. Glóin cried out and leant back, but Balin just grinned, staring at the blue flames._

 _"It's the strangest feeling. Very warm, and uncomfortable, yes, but it isn't painful."_

 _Eyes fixed on the fire, Glóin frowned. "Then why is this not used in war?"_

 _"It is not easy to come by, and not easy to make. And there's nothing to stop these flames from leaping up my arms, if I'm not careful. A wrong wind, and you've wiped out your whole army. A hobbit could not wield it – their skin is not tough enough to withstand the heat. Orcs and men would fare poorly, too, though goblins of the mountains might manage it… It is not a universal weapon. Oh, and in weapons such as this, it only works once – then, you must restock the oil. And it must be Oil of the Stars from the Orocarni, that is very important. It is not practical for warfare. It's a trick for desperate times, my dear cousin. Or to show off in front of your son, should he grow too big for his beard."_

"Desperate times," Glóin muttered, staring at the slight charring around the metal blade of his axe. He rubbed at it with his sleeve, and it cleared. Soot, not charring. His axe was not damaged at all. "Desperate times…"

The sound of mewling and whining brought him back to himself, and he forced himself to stand up. There were goblins still living – writhing and burning or bleeding, and he put them out of their misery one by one. All save the last – the largest, who bore a badge with the symbol of a red eye upon his breast.

"Who sent you?" Glóin growled, pressing his dagger close to the goblin's neck. "Who posted you here? What was your task? Speak!"

The goblin's lips peeled back to reveal bloodstained teeth, and a smile that made Glóin sick to his stomach. "Your kingdom will fall. Your King will be destroyed, and your people will perish. No one will come for you. Your kingdom is dead already."

And then, quick as an adder, the orc seized Glóin's hand, and pushed the knife down and across. And ripped open his own neck.

The silence left behind was as absolute as it had been before the fight. Only the wind remained. The wind, and the sound of dripping blood. Pain was beginning to return to Glóin's shoulder, and he barely felt his axe fall from his fingers. Though he breathed deeply, his head was beginning to spin, and exhaustion was taking him quickly.

Now was the time to think – his shoulder. His medical kit was on the pony – he had to return to the pony, but there was no way he could climb over the way he had come. Not in this state. But this trench was here for a reason – goblins did not often make outposts, especially those that dwelt in the mountains. They broiled in their dark lairs, and waited for unwary travellers to slip into their nets. They would raid, or hunt, yes, but they had no need for outposts.

Yet here, there were areas that looked oddly like a camp, and the floor was littered with an arsenal of weapons that could take down a small company of dwarves. There was only one reason that orcs or goblins would camp out in such high numbers, in so small a space as this.

An ambush.

But to launch an ambush, they would have to meet the path – and quickly. So, the tunnel had to meet the outside eventually. Stooping despite the pain, Glóin picked his axe up from the floor, and leant on it heavily.

Alone and bleeding, he began to trudge through the corpses, deeper into the trench. There was food around, some fresher but most foul – mouldy and rotting, and there were the bones of small animals littered around the place. It stank of decay and refuse, and even as Glóin sank further into disgust, he registered that there had been a goblin station there for some time. Weeks, at least. More likely months. Glóin hurried on, until he kicked something that made the strangest sound.

Bells. It sounded like bells.

It was a light tinkling, carefree and bright, and so far removed from anything he would expect from this place. He crouched down, and peered at what seemed to be a crushed meal ball. Frowning, he picked it up, but as soon as his fingers touched the metal, recognition flooded his mind, and he gasped softly. It was a dwarven helmet, one designed for the messengers of Erebor. It had been crushed, by a hammer of some sorts, he guessed, so that it was spherical, and there was something inside. Something tinkling.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Glóin knew that he was still bleeding. That his brother, were he here, would be smacking him on the back of the head with his staff and ordering him to take care of his wound at once. But this was why he was here – to warn Dís and Bilbo, yes, but also to discover what happened to the other messengers.

His fingers found what had once been the neck of the helmet, and he began to prise it open. The edges bit into his fingers, but whatever tools the orcs had used had beaten much of the strength from the metal, and it gave easily enough beneath his grip. When he looked inside, his heart sank. He saw rings, some of copper and others of gold, and beads and earrings. A pendant.

As he shifted the helmet, they rolled around, and made that light, tinkling sound.

And they were all, unmistakably, dwarven.

Some of the pieces looked familiar, but he did not trust his ability to recognise such things while he still bled, so he tipped them all out onto his palm, and then into his coin purse. When he returned home, so would the jewellery. That way, at least some part of their former owners could have peace.

He walked on.

He could feel his heart quickening, and growing weaker as his blood pressure continued to drop. With a snarl, he pressed his hand over the wound. It shrieked in pain, but he gritted his teeth and held on. Walked on. There was sunlight dancing on the ground ahead, and he hurried towards it, emerging into the bottleneck in the rocks that he had seen earlier.

Then he groaned.

His pony was gone. Fled, most likely.

Glóin sank to his knees, and tried to breathe deeply, fill his lungs and his mind. It was not easy. Not when he was utterly alone.

He closed his eyes, and forced more pressure onto his shoulder. Blood dripped over his fingers. And then something back to lick the blood away.

His eyes ripped open, and Lani cowed back, but when he did not move again she crept forward, and nuzzled his neck, gently licking at the blood she could reach.

"I hope you're doing that for some canine cleaning reason, and not because you're going to eat me the moment I fall asleep," he growled. To his surprise, Lani coiled back for a moment, before tentatively returning and nuzzling at him again with an indignant whine. Her front legs were shaking, and Glóin frowned. He may not be an expert on the wolves, but he knew that Lani was fearless as they came.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

She gave a sad whine, and then laid her head on his lap. Beneath the black of the goblin blood, he could see gashes over her muzzle, and her several lacerations over her arm and chest. It looked like a knife had caught her rump, too, but there were no puncture wounds, that he could see.

"I'm still winning," he huffed, removing his cloak and coat, and then his tunic. He shivered in the wind, and Lani stood, walked around to curl up by his back. Her bulk shielded him from the worst of the gusts, and he was able to pull off his undershirt. This, he tore with this knife, and he retrieved his gloves from his pocket. Bundling them up, he pushed them against the wound until he knew that the blood flow had stopped. Hissing against the pain, he tried to tie it into place, but he could not maintain the pressure.

"Damn it, damn it to the very depths of Mordor!" he yelled, and Lani sprang to her feet. She raced around to look at him, and Glóin could see fear in her eyes, as plain as her nose. "What is it?"

Her eyes flickered to the axe at his side.

"It's gone," he said bluntly. "The fire's gone. I can't do it again. And I wouldn't burn _you,_ would I?"

She hesitated, her paw hovering over the ground. Then, she limped forward, and pressed her head into Glóin's elbow. And held the bundled gloves in place.

"Thanks," Glóin grunted, manoeuvring as best he could to tie them into place. And managed on the second try. As he fastened the knot, Lani rested her face in his lap again. Glóin reached for the flask on his hip, and took a long swig of whisky. He thought about offering some to the wolf, but decided that she would not want any.

"Thank you," he said again, patting her shoulder. "Yours don't look they're bleeding too badly. Curse that pony! Couldn't he at least have left us Óin's cleaning balms?"

The wolf whined, and stared at him.

"So do we go on? Or do we go back for help?"

She met his eyes, and if Glóin had ever doubted how much Beorn's wolves understood of the Common Tongue, he doubted no longer. And he did not doubt her reply.

"Aye, I quite agree. Onwards it is."

 **I really, really hope that you liked that chapter – it was kind of brutal, but pretty fun to write. Do let me know what you thought, and what you think it means. And now, onto the next!**


	29. Chapter 29: The Battle on the Doorstep

**Next one!**

 **Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Battle on the Doorstep**

"Oh, shit," whispered Bróin. "They've all come!"

Dreading what he would see, Frodo whirled around to stare across the lake. There were ponies and horses emerging from the trees, a little way south from where the fellowship had emerged, and at their head was Bilbo.

The older hobbit looked stricken. His face was lined and drawn, but there was a fury in his eyes that Frodo could see from this distance, and it knotted his stomach.

 _I'm sorry, Bilbo. I'm so sorry. This is for the best._

Swallowing his shame, Frodo turned back to the door. "Mellon!"

The doors began to creak open, and Kíli's voice roared across the pool _. "Naidribi! Innikî, zû!"_

 _Stop! Return, now!_

Vaguely, Frodo was aware of those around him shifting uncomfortably, and he could not fight the urge to look over his shoulder at Kíli. He winced.

He had done it now.

The prince looked ready to kill. Frodo only seen such fury on Kíli's face once before – when the Shire was attacked, and Frodo admitted what had really happened to his parents. The rage had scared him then. Now, it saddened him. Frodo's eyes flickered to Fíli. His mouth was pressed into a thin, straight line, and he was staring hard at Frodo.

Frodo took a breath to steady himself, and nodded slightly. Even if there was no place for him in his family anymore, it would be worth it. As long as they lived, it was worth it. Tears burnt behind his eyes, but he blinked, and shook them away.

Looked back at the door. Stepped –

"Don't take another step, Frodo Baggins!" Kíli roared, and urged Luno into the water.

"Frodo," murmured Aragorn, and Frodo looked at the man. His eyes were fixed on their pursuers, and Frodo followed his gaze.

"You have been very brave," a loud, familiar voice called, and Gandalf dismounted, walking towards the very edge of the pool. "But it is time now, to hand over your task."

Frodo took a deep breath, and turned to his fellowship. "Let's go."

Aragorn hesitated, his eyes on Gandalf. "I…" Legolas, too looked torn, and Boromir was slowly backing away from the door.

But Gimli and the original conspiracy stared at him, and nodded their grief stricken faces. Their determination reigned.

This was the right thing to do.

Frodo took a step into the door.

And then the water exploded.

Screams, from every direction, terrified wolf howls, water spraying, splashing, the strangest cry Frodo had ever heard. Frodo spun around on the spot, his mouth dropping open at the sight before him. Terror seized him, but even as he backed away, dwarven training led his fingers to his sword hilt.

He had no other word for it.

There was a monster in the water.

It rose up, thrusting serpent-like limbs towards Kíli and the others, and as a bulbous head breached the water a tentacle wrapped around Luno, ripping him into the air. The wolf let out a howl of terror and pain, and Kíli roared, and hacking at the creature, but another tentacle smashed across his chest, and sent him crashing to the ground bellow.

"Kíli!" screamed Frodo, and he was not the only one. "Luno!"

As if drawn by the sound of his voice, the creature turned, creating a whirlpool around it. The next thing Frodo knew, something cold, slippery and deathly strong had wrapped twice around his chest. Within the span of a heartbeat he was been dragged backwards, through the air, unable to do anything but scream.

"No! _Frodo!"_

Writhing frantically, Frodo tried to use his sword, but his arms were bound to his sides and he could do nothing with only his wrists. He was helpless, and he knew it. Any of the air left in his lungs was chased away by terror as he looked down, and saw a face like that of some monstrous spider, or one of the cave-fish Nori would scare them with as children. A mouth the size of a hobbit's front door was wrenching open, full of thousands of needle-sharp teeth, and he was being lowered towards it –

One arrow, two, three, struck the tentacle that held him, and the monster gave a moan that Frodo could feel, and then he was falling, plummeting towards the mouth, towards the black water –

And then an arm was around his chest, snatching him clean from the air. As though it was the easiest thing in the world, Legolas leapt from tentacle to tentacle, with Frodo hanging over his arm like a kitten.

Stunned, Frodo watched the water fly beneath him, churned and frothy from the movements of the monster. His old fear of drowning was creeping up his throat, but he had no time for that now. Ducking a snake-like limb, Legolas sprang from another tentacle and landed gracefully on the beach. In the same moment he released Frodo, the elf turned and went for the creature with two long knives, drawing out its odd, echoing roar. As if in answer, a harsh, shrill horn sounded in the woods to the south.

The orcs – the orcs had caught them.

"No," he groaned, trying to catch his breath as Sam seized his arm. "No, please…"

But his prayers were unanswered, and dozens of the foul creatures spilled out from the trees on the southern side of the pool, swarming towards his family with swords and bows and torches. Some lingered in the trees, and began to take aim at Frodo's group.

Even as Frodo grappled for a bow, Ehren let out a battle cry to challenge the monster's, charging towards the oncoming orcs with Nori, Ori, Bifur and Bofur behind him. All the wolves raced back across the creek, heading straight for the wargs with bared teeth and furious growls, but Frodo could not see if Luno was on his feet to join them. He kept looking, even as he threw on his pack in case he had to run, and joined the ranks that the other hobbits had created.

Aragorn, Boromir, and Merry were shooting at the orcs, so Frodo set his attention on the monster in the water. It seemed to have been distracted by the orcs, and though the last thing he wanted to do was draw its attention, Frodo joined Pippin in pelting it with rocks. The throwing knives of Nelly and Bróin were somewhat more effective, but they only seemed to take out the tentacles. It did not seem like the monster was weakening at all – in fact it simply seemed to grow angrier.

"How can anything have so many legs?" bellowed Bróin, ducking as one of his knives was thrown back at him by the beast.

For a moment, Frodo thought it would surge towards them, but on the opposite bank, Glorfindel, Erestor and Vinca were laying into it with arrows of their own, and tearing away its attention.

"Run!" Kíli roared, though Frodo could not see him anywhere. "Run, get into the mines!"

The monster was turning again, but he could not tell in which direction, and two very familiar battle cries pulled Frodo's gaze to the north side, and the creek. Gandalf was crossing it quickly, with Fíli and Kíli on his heels. The princes looked furious, and were aiming right for the creature in the water. Behind them ran Soren, Bragi and Bofin, and then Bilbo and Dís, but as soon as Frodo's aunt and uncle reached the water they turned, holding off the orcs that were squirming their way towards the crossing.

With just the two of them there, they looked so alone, and Frodo watched in horror as Dís deflected a knife that missed her stomach by an inch.

 _No, no –_

A cry of pain turned Frodo's head, and he saw Sam stagger backwards, clutching at his neck as an arrow shattered onto the rock behind him.

"Sam!" Frodo dove forward, seizing Sam's arm.

"I'm alright," Sam said, adjusting his grip on the sword. "We need cover-"

Three tentacles came their way, and together the young hobbits set to work, dodging and slicing as best they could. The ends of three, bloodied tentacles fell to the ground either side of them, like the corpses of snakes.

"Get into the mines!" roared Gandalf. The wizard was close now, only feet away, and his staff was aimed at the beast.

"Not now," Nelly snarled, landing an axe into the back of the monster in the water. Her hand flew to her belt and then paused. She drew her sword – so her throwing blades were spent. "We won't leave you in a fight –"

Frodo swung at another tentacle aiming his way, severing the end, but then something on the other side of the lake caught his eye.

Orc archers, taking aim.

At the princes.

"Fíli!" he screamed, even as the arrows flew. "Get down!"

Soren knocked Fíli down as Kíli and Bragi ducked, and several arrows collided with the mountain. For a heart stopping moment, Frodo thought that there should have been more arrows, that Fíli had been hit after all, but then the prince leapt to his feet, and sent a grim smile at Frodo.

"Thanks!" He paused to throw an axe at an orc on the other side of the lake. "Now _go!"_

"Not now!" cried Frodo, but his voice sounded so small.

"We'll hold them off, get into the mountain," Kíli called in reply, shooting at the foes across the pool. "Not the plan we had in mind, but it will do, if Gandalf's with you. Go."

"No, we can't!" Frodo shook his head frantically. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bofin trying to force Bróin into the mines.

"Get _off_ me Bofin, I've got to help!"

"Get inside, Bróin, just listen to me for once in your life!"

"Frodo!" Kíli yelled, his eyes flickering to the hobbit even as he fired arrow after arrow at the orcs. Beneath the anger, Frodo could see fear in Kíli's eyes. "Listen to me, get into the mountain! We'll meet you on the other side, I promise. Go, _now!"_

Feeling as though he was tearing his own heart from his chest, Frodo turned and ran into the mine. It was dark inside, but the cavern amplified the screams and shouts outside, and Frodo clutched at the chain around his neck.

This felt far more like he was betraying his family.

"This way!" Gandalf charged in behind him, and Gimli, Boromir Aragorn and Legolas all obeyed. Merry, Pippin and Sam were at their heels, and after a moment, Nelly ran inside.

Bróin, on the other hand, was still fighting his shorter and squatter older brother. Even amongst the chaos, Frodo was amazed that Bofin had pushed Bróin so far in.

"For the love of Mahal!" the older dwarf groaned, through gritted teeth. "Bróin, you-"

Too late, Frodo saw the monster's hideous face surge towards them. All he could do to warn the others was yell, but that was not enough as the beast collided with the mountain, and one of its tentacles wrapped around the first soul in reach.

"Bofin!" Bróin cried, suddenly scrambling to grab his brother as the older boy was torn away. "Bofin!"

Gandalf raised his staff, but before any spell could be cast, the stone beneath the creature cracked, and then rumbled. Nelly and Gimli darted forward to grab Bróin, but he fought them with a cry like a wounded animal, and it was only when Boromir and Aragorn leapt in to help that they managed to drag him backwards.

Away from the rock that was cracking.

And Frodo knew exactly what was about to happen.

"Run!" Gandalf ordered, and somehow Frodo obeyed, turning to run blindly into a dark that became absolute with a tremendous crash.

The sound of a cave in.

"Let go of me! Let _go_ of me! Bofin!" Bróin's voice was higher than usual, and Frodo could hear him choking. "Bofin!"

There was no scream of reply. Already, the sounds of outside were muffled, frighteningly so. Frodo could see nothing, he could hear nothing except heavy breathing and sobs and Bróin –

"Gandalf," he choked, searching blindly for the wizard in the dark. "Gandalf, we must go back, we must help them!"

A dim, white light appeared at the end of the wizard's staff, illuminating an old, dusty entrance hall. And the haggard faces of Frodo's companions.

"We cannot go back," said Gandalf gravely, looking first at Frodo, then at the door. Frodo turned, letting out a small whimper.

There was no door, not anymore. Only a pile of rubble, a solid wall of broken stone, that had to be several feet thick, at best. He knew in that moment that there would be no going back. Not that way. They were trapped.

But the others still had the monster to face, and the orcs –

"You cannot have thought your decision would be without consequence?"

 _I did not think_ this _would be the consequence!_ Frodo wanted to scream. But he could hardly breathe, let alone gather the air to scream.

"You are fools." Gandalf's voice boomed in the cavernous space, anger and sorrow both evident in his tone. "Brave, stupid, fools."

The breath of quiet that followed was broken by a very odd noise – a noise Frodo had never heard before. He shivered, sweaty fingers shifting on his sword hilt, and turned in its direction. Bróin was standing a few feet away. Well, standing was not the right word. He was hanging, limp, in the arms of Nelly and Gimli.

As Frodo watched, he shrugged them off, and stumbled forward to the stone wall, crashing down to his knees before a small rock. Nelly followed on tiptoes, her eyes flooding as Bróin reached out to the rock with trembling fingers.

Then Frodo heard the noise again. It was a garbled blend of a whimper and a sob and a groan, a helpless sound of regret and of _grief,_ grief and regret so deep it could not have come from Bróin, not Bróin –

And then Bróin keened, his whole body curling around that stone that was not a stone, and Frodo's heart stumbled painfully. He did not know what happened, but anything that could make Bróin cry, make him cry aloud…

"Bro?" Nelly whispered, placing a shaking hand on his shoulders. Then she gazed into his lap, and moaned, pushing her hand against her mouth.

Frodo was already running toward them when Nelly's knees buckled, and for once Bróin did not catch her. Instead, he just keened as she wrapped her arms around him, and hid her face in his hair.

"What is it?" Frodo asked, but his voice was so tight it did not even sound like his own. "What happened? Bróin?"

Bróin twisted around and seized Nelly tightly, burying his face in her shoulder and sobbing like a child. Something tumbled from his lap and onto the floor, and he cringed and clutched her tighter.

Frodo barely heard his own scream as he watched Bofin's boot rock gently on the ground. The boot was bleeding. Leaking a dark stream of blood onto the floor. It was not empty.

Frodo's lungs refused to take in any more air. The world began to spin, and he stumbled down beside Nelly and Bróin. Sank to his knees.

"I'm so sorry," he tried to say, but his voice was less than a whisper. "I'm sorry Bróin, I'm so sorry."

"What's going –" Pippin's question was interrupted by his own cry as he saw exactly what was going on, and Frodo looked up in time to see the youngest of the hobbits turn as white as snow. "No, no, no –"

He stumbled backwards, right into Merry, who folded his arms around Pippin immediately. Pippin hid his face in Merry's shoulder, and Merry swallowed, unable to tear his eyes away from the boot.

The foot.

Bofin's foot.

Sam groaned, and then yelled in anger, and threw his sword to the floor. The sound of metal on stone was loud as an earthquake in the darkness, but no louder than Gimli's cry of horror. But the older dwarf gained control over himself in a moment, and hurried to Bróin's side. Gimli's hands were shaking, but he had a forced calm about him.

"Look at me," he said gruffly, pulling Bróin by his short beard to force the younger dwarf to look at him. Then he cupped his hands on either side of Bróin's cheeks. "Look at me, lad. We don't know what happened, no, look at me, Bofin might live. You remember, you remember the story of the miner in the Blue Mountains, mmh? They found his arm, and days later found him alive and, well, not _well_ but he survived, didn't he? Don't you crumble on us now, lad. There are good fighters out there, and half decent healers."

Frodo wished that he could share Gimli's hope. As it was, all he could do was try to stop from weeping himself.

Legolas walked to the wall of rubble, carefully picking a way through loose stones to press his ear against the rock. He closed his eyes, and for a long moment, he was silent. When he spoke, his voice was gentler than Frodo had ever heard it. "Your brother is alive. I can hear his cries. He lies closer to the others than to us – his face is free to the air. He lives, my friend."

Frodo hung his head, and began to pray. _Thank you, thank you, thank you – please keep him that way, please let him be alright, please…_

"For how long?" Bróin asked, his voice trembling with hope, and with bitterness. "For how long, if he's lo- if he's – how long?"

The elf turned his face away. "That, I cannot say."

Frodo reached out for Sitka, only to remember that none of the wolves had entered with them. They had lost their fiercest companions, half their baggage, almost all their medical supplies…

Medical supplies.

Sam.

Frodo scrambled to his feet. "Sam – are you alright, are you hurt?"

For a moment, Sam just blinked at him, dazed. Then he raised his hand towards his neck, as if moving through a dream, and sighed. "I'm fine. Just a scratch. I was, I was lucky."

Frodo tugged Sam's hand away, sighing himself when he saw that it was true. It was just a scratch. Sam was lucky.

"Frodo…" Sam's lip shook slight, and he lowered his voice. "D'you, d'you think the others will be alright?"

"I… I don't know," Frodo whispered, closing his eyes.

* * *

As he looked at Frodo, Gimli wanted to close his eyes himself. He wanted to roar at the fear and the pain and the grief – to curse their fate and to curse that monster, whatever it was – but that was not what he was needed for.

His cousins, his little dwobbits, they needed him now, more than ever. They needed someone there, someone calm and hopeful and strong, and even if he felt none of those things in his heart, he would be them all on the outside. He would give calm and hope and strength to his kin.

Above all, Gimli was worried that they had lost Bróin. The lad was still so young, and finding a brother's severed foot could unhinge a grown dwarf, especially after such a fight. Gimli would not be surprised if Bróin broke down entirely, if he could not gather his wits or his strength for a while, but they could not afford that. If Bróin broke, he was twice as vulnerable. What he needed was time, time to understand and process what had happened, time to control his grief and raise his hope, but they did not have the time to give him.

Several agonisingly long minutes passed, and Bróin did not move – he just clung to Nelly with his eyes clouded and unblinking. But then, with no sign of a trigger, Bombur's son took a deep breath, and wiped his tears on his sleeve in a motion that looked almost like a punch. He stood up so fast that the hobbits jumped, and then he turned with blazing eyes to Gandalf.

"What," he growled, "did you just say?"

Gimli frowned. What _had_ Gandalf said? He had called them fools, but –

"You think we _didn't_ think about the consequences?" Bróin's voice rose to a shout before the wizard could reply. "Of course we did, the damned consequences are why we were here in the first place! We knew, we _knew_ that any one of us, or _anyone_ else we loved could be hurt, or killed, we're not sheltered little lordlings playing war in Ada's office!"

Gandalf's eyes were widening, but his face was impassive as the stone, and that worried Gimli. He stood himself, putting a hand on Bróin's shoulder. "This isn't the time-"

Bróin let out a fierce laugh, and threw off Gimli's hand. "The time? No, it isn't, is it? Because we were supposed to be moving by now, we had a _plan._ But even though we had a plan, and even though we knew that things could go wrong we did not think _this_ would be a consequence because we did not think that you would be stupid enough to follow us the way you did!" Bróin's voice grew from a shout to a roar, and he thrust his pointed fist towards Gandalf. "What were you _thinking?_ Bringing a group of, what, twenty? How, _how_ would that be helpful for anyone other than the enemy? We knew we'd be followed, but we thought you'd be smart enough to split up, sneak about, keep secret like you swore was 'of vital importance!' Yet you did not. You thought that it would be better to waltz up with a group _double_ the size of ours and shout 'hello, here we are, come and get us!' If you weren't here the orcs would never have caught us, and none of this-" he gestured furiously to the fallen stone, "-would have happened! If you had just stopped and thought about it, we'd be well on our way now. But no. We were _not_ the ones who did not consider the consequences."

When the echo of his word shout died, and the others stood like stone in the silence, Bróin shifted his pack on his shoulders, checked the straps of his sword, and then strode right past Gandalf. The wizard did not move, and the young dwarf did not pause as he made his way up the stairs towards the deeper darkness.

After a moment and without a word, Nelly lifted her own bag from the floor behind her, and nimbly scrambled after him. She sent a half-fearful, half-furious glance at Gandalf on the way past, and finally the wizard turned.

"And where do you think you're going?"

Bróin spoke coldly over his shoulder. "To fulfil the quest." He looked deliberately away from Gandalf, meeting the eye of every other member of the fellowship. "We are not turning back now. And thanks to the 'great' choices of the wise, we have no time to rest tonight."

Before the younger dwarf had even finished speaking, Gimli began to climb the stairs. It was not to walk away from Gandalf as such, nor to get moving for moving's sake. Though he did think Bróin was right, what the boy needed was his family's support, and their validation, and Gimli would show it the best way he could. It was the least he could do for a frightened young dwarf who had just found his brother's severed foot.

The hobbits seemed more hesitant to anger the wizard, but as Gimli walked, they too headed for the stairs. As he did a quick headcount, Gimli saw Pippin tug Merry's hand to tear his cousin's gaze from Bofin's foot.

 _Poor, poor Bofin,_ thought Gimli, his stomach churning. But he forced his mind away. Bofur would look after his nephew, and Bofin would be alright. He had to be.

"So, you simply challenge me and then leave? That does not seem very noble, Master Dwarf," said Gandalf, his voice as icy as Bróin's.

The hobbits stopped in their tracks, even Nelly, and looked fearfully between Gandalf and Bróin. Gimli, too, held his breath. As much as he agreed with Bróin, he could understand some of Gandalf's logic, and more importantly he did not want to anger the wizard. Gandalf had not wanted this.

No one had wanted this.

Bróin turned around fully, and Gimli was thrown by the strength of his voice. "It was not a challenge, Master Wizard. It was a condemnation."

Gimli heard Frodo groan, and his own heart began to pick up speed again.

Face still unreadable, Gandalf began to make his way up the stairs. The men and Legolas stood frozen below, gazing up in dismay as some force compelled Gimli and the hobbits to back away. Only Bróin remained, standing like the statue of a warrior at the very top of the stairway. As the wizard drew nearer, Bróin's hands began to tremble, and when he crossed his arms his lip quaked instead. His eyes hurt to look at – they were so full of anger and agony, and Gimli had to look away.

But he looked quickly back when Gandalf stood before Bróin, and spoke, in a soft, jarringly gentle voice. "I am sorry if my words upset you, son of Bombur. Though our group may seem large, we did travel in secret, under the cover of darkness, until we found that we were within a day's march from you. Perhaps it was ill-advised, and perhaps we ought not to have shouted for you to halt. But, at the time, we thought it best. _I_ thought it best. It seems that both our companies have taken ill-paths with good intentions."

Bróin's chin remained high, but he spoke, rather than shouted, his reply. "The only 'path' I regret was leaving like a thief in the night, but that could not be helped. We did what we had to do, and I stand by that."

"Even now?" Gandalf raised an eyebrow. "Now that there is battle again outside Moria's gates, and your own brother has been maimed in the fray?"

"Even now," Bróin agreed, his voice tight, but ringing true. "We did what we had to do, and will do it again now."

"Then why did you not run when you were instructed to, if you will set aside your feelings for this quest?" Gandalf said, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly.

"Hubris," Bróin spat, even as his shoulders slumped forward slightly – his guilty tell. Gimli's own heart sank slightly as he bowed his head. Hubris had indeed been what kept his axe outside until the last. "We thought we could hold our own. Help our kin. But we couldn't. The mistake will not be made again."

"I did not see hubris in Frodo's eyes," pointed out Gandalf.

Before Frodo could open his mouth, Bróin spoke for him. "Beginner's balk."

"What?" puzzled Boromir.

"The hesitation and bewilderment that fighters experience during their first real altercation," recited Merry glumly. "Made worse by the fear for comrades. Everyone insists that it'd never happen to them." He paused, and stared at his feet. "Everyone's wrong."

"We will do this," said Bróin, drawing the wizard's eyes back to him. "We'll do what we have to do."

"Then let me help you do it," replied Gandalf softly.

Confusion flickered across the warring emotions on Bróin's face. "What?"

"We cannot go back," Gandalf gestured to the fallen rocks. "So we must go on. I have been through Moria before, and I can guide you. I will not try to stop you, nor bear you back. I will help you onwards, until we reach the woods of Lothlórien. If I am not convinced by then of your ability to complete the quest, we can take council with the lady, and seek sanctuary in her halls until something may be done. Does that seem reasonable to you?"

Bróin hesitated for a long moment, and then finally tore his gaze from Gandalf to look to the others. Frodo nodded, and Bróin took a deep breath. "Alright. Thank you."

Gandalf inclined his head, and then crouched down, putting a hand on Bróin's shoulder and speaking so quietly Gimli almost missed the words. "Your bravery is admirable, my lad. You are doing well. But hold on to it, and hold on tight. You will need your courage to hold." Then the wizard stood up, and strode to the front of the group. "Let us go," he said. "And while we are at it, you can spell out your logic for me, if you have indeed 'thought this through'. Though take care not to speak of your final goal. We do not know who or what may be dwelling in this darkness."

 **There we go, I hope you enjoyed that edited (hopefully clearer) chapter. Please do leave a review if you can, I really appreciate the support. Until Friday, take care, and thanks for reading!**


	30. Chapter 30: To Save a Life

**Yo! It's Friday! And today, I have three chapters for you. Yep. Three. We're very, very nearly caught up now, and I'm getting really excited about what is to come. Please forgive any typos, as usual**

 **Chapter Thirty: To Save a Life**

The chaos of battle was nothing new to Fíli, but the presence of the creature in the water certainly put a spin on things. As it thrust its bulging body against the side of the mountain, Fíli noted that it looked almost like the strange, 'octopus' creatures sometimes found in books talking of the sea. When they were children, Kíli had always scoffed that it was a lie for the gullible reader, and that nothing could exist with so many legs.

This thing must have at least a dozen legs, maybe two, or more – it was hard to count with them flailing all over the place. There seemed to be no end to them.

But these thoughts passed through Fíli's mind in a mere fraction of a second. He had no more time to spare for them. Bofin's screams were ear-splitting for a moment, but then they were swallowed by the sounds of battle, and that did not bode well for Bombur's oldest son. The wolves were all charging at the beast, and it was his turn to join them. He could hear Dís, Bilbo, Bofur and Bifur crossing the creek to reach this bank, and reach Bofin, and Kíli and Bragi were already laying into the monster.

Fíli's heart skipped a beat at his brother dancing between the powerful tentacles, but he forced himself to check the other side of the lake before running to his brother's aid. The orcs were being pushed back, and now only Ehren, Nori and Ori were left fighting them. Glorfindel was also racing towards the creek, while Erestor and Vinca shot from where they stood, aiming at both the orcs and the monster.

Satisfied that everyone knew what they were doing, Fíli darted towards Kíli, but he stopped short as he realised that someone was missing. Where was Soren? He was not with Kíli and Bragi, but Fíli had not seen him with Bofin earlier.

There was no sign of Soren charging towards the orcs, or towards the monster, and Fíli was sure that he had not been close enough to duck into the mines with the others. He was not fording the creek, nor shooting his bow – he was nowhere.

Knowing he had but half a second more to muse his friend's location, Fíli flew back through his memories to find the last time he had noticed Soren. The arrows – Frodo had yelled, and Soren had knocked Fíli out of the arrows' path.

A chill scuttled down Fíli's spine like a frozen spider, and he slowly looked down at the bank itself.

And horror struck a blow to his stomach.

Soren was lying where he had fallen, face down, unmoving. His dark hair and dark clothes had blended in with the bank, and he was veiled in shadows, but how had Fíli not seen him? How had Fíli not seen the three, long arrows protruding from his friend's back?

Stop. Breathe.

 _Was Soren breathing?_

Fíli's own chest tightened, and he whirled around, seizing his mother's arm just before she ran out of reach. "Cover Kíli, send me Bragi!"

If she was confused, Dís did not show it. She nodded, once, and then continued her charge towards the monster. Towards Kíli and Bragi. Throwing his own swords into their sheaths, Fíli turned and ran back down the bank, weaving around Glorfindel and Bilbo as they followed his mother.

Soren was only seconds away, but in those seconds Fíli had already taken in everything about his friend's position. Three feet from the rock-face, four from the pool. Arrow between his shoulder blades, another in the small of his back, another just above his hip. His face turned towards the mountain, left arm beneath him, right arm stretched out towards Fíli.

Right fingers slipping over the stones.

 _He was alive._

Fíli skidded to his knees beside him, sending shingle flying out against the mountain behind. His heart was beating fast as it had on Weathertop, and his fear was scrambling from his lungs up to his throat, but his hands were steady. He reached up to Soren's outstretched hand and took it, wincing at the ice of its touch.

"Soren," he said, using all the strength he had to keep his voice calm and strong. Soren did not need his panic. "Soren, can you hear me, buhel?"

Soren's eyes flickered beneath their lids, and Fíli shifted his grip on his friend's hand to try and take a pulse. The beat was little more than a flutter, too fast and too shallow, but it was there.

"Soren," he said again, louder and a little more urgently. "Soren, I need you to wake up, now."

Again, Soren's eyes flickered beneath his lids, but this time the movement was accompanied by a weak groan. Fíli leant forward, his knees growing warm and wet. Startled, he looked down, and then closed his eyes. He was kneeling in a sea of Soren's blood. Ragan's son could not afford to lose much more.

Even as this thought passed through Fíli's mind, he forced himself to look. He was rewarded when Soren's eyelids quivered, and then opened half-way.

"Fíli…" he rasped, his voice as quiet as death.

"Aye, Soren, it's me. That's a lad, look at me, look at me now." Fíli refused to allow his voice to shake as he dragged his lips into a smile. Without looking away from his friend's face, he drew a small knife from his pocket, and severed his own coat sleeves. There was no time to run for bandages. "There we go, there we go. Breathe. I'm here. Bragi's coming."

"Bragi." Soren's voice broke between the syllables, and his eyebrows scrunched down low. "Shouldn', shouldn' see… 's bad th's time, Fíli."

"Nah," Fíli lied, giving a casual shrug as he pressed the torn fabric against the lowest wound. It seemed to be bleeding the heaviest. Soren hissed, and his hand tightened around Fíli's a little, but he did not protest. "Worse things happen in the mines."

"No." Soren closed his eyes, and his fingers clumsily wove through Fíli's. "I know i's bad." Then his eyes opened, and there was fear sparkling behind his tears. "Don', don' leave me?"

"Never," Fíli promised, his own eyes threatening to sting. "No, I'm right here."

"Safe?"

"You're s-"

Soren groaned. " _You_ safe? M' job…"

Fíli could no longer hold back tears of his own. "Soren… I'm safe. I'm safe, Soren. You did well."

A small smile slipped across Soren's cheeks, and sent a dribble of blood down onto the rocks below. "Did well…"

"A little too well," Fíli attempted to joke, and to his relief Soren gave a huff of breath that could be a laugh. But the movement made him wince, and then cough, and then let out weak little shuddering gasps. "Soren! Soren, calm down, just breathe. That's it, breathe. There we go… Of course you did your job. Of course you did it too well. You have never failed me, buhel."

"Friend, of all friends," breathed Soren, his eyelids flickering. "I… did my best… for my fam'ly…"

Before Fíli could reply, a horror-struck howl rendered the air.

" _Soren_!" Bragi collapsed onto the earth at Soren's head, crawling forward like a thing possessed. One shaking hand rested on Soren's head, and the other fell upon his shoulder. "Oh Mahal, what happened? What _happened?"_

With the last two words, Bragi turned his stricken face to Fíli, but the prince could only shake his head.

"Wasn' quick 'nough," Soren whispered, and with a jolt of fear, Fíli realised that his voice was getting weaker. But when his hazy eyes found Bragi, Soren smiled, and his whole body seemed to relax. "Bragi… Bragi…"

"I'm here," promised the albino. "I'm here, Soren. You just hold on, you'll be fine. We have elves, don't we? They'll make sure you're alright, I swear it."

With those words, Soren's green eyes swam with tears, and then fixed on Fíli. "Did my duty?"

A tremble broke through Fíli's composure. "You did. You always have. I can ask nothing more than for you to hold on, please."

Tears broke over onto Soren's cheeks. "Don', please… Don' ask me… I cannot…"

"No, no!" Bragi stammered, but Soren's eyes did not leave Fíli. "Stop thinking like that, Soren, you're not going to die."

"Please…" Soren whispered, and Fíli was certain his friend was seeing into his very soul. "Jus' 'n case?"

Fíli glanced at Bragi, but the albino could not tear his own eyes from Soren. Taking a deep breath, Fíli bowed his head, and then smiled sadly at their wounded friend. "Have peace in your heart, Lord, for your duty is done. You have made proud your prince and your kingdom, and I will ask no more of you." Bragi let out a soft cry, and Fíli's composure crumpled. His hand tightened over Soren's. "But as your friend, I beg you to hold on. Please, Soren, I do not want to lose any family today. Please…"

Peace passed over Soren's face, and his fingers fluttered weakly around Fíli's hand, as if he was trying to squeeze it. "Thank you."

"No, _no_!" cried Bragi, a wild fear in his eyes that stabbed Fíli through the gut. It was a fear he knew all too well – the fear that had conquered him every time he was about to lose his Kíli. His own fear now was almost as great, and he could feel himself trembling. "No, Soren, you must hold on, you must! For the love of _Mahal,_ Soren, just stay with me!"

"Hey," Soren began, but then he choked, and began to cough. His body spasmed as coughs wracked through his torso and sprayed blood onto the ground below. It was all Bragi and Fíli could do to pillow his head and keep pressure on the wounds around the arrows until it passed. When it did, Soren's clouded eyes were only for Bragi. "A' leas'… I'll get'a… meet your… Ada…"

"No," Bragi begged, as sobs began to shake his own body. He clutched Soren's shoulder with white fingers, and wove his hands into the other dwarf's hair. It felt as though Fíli was intruding in something private, but he could not bear to leave either of them. No, I don't want you to meet him, not now, not like this! Please, nadadith, please don't leave me. Come on, nadadith, come on now, please!"

"Nadad," breathed Soren. His smile grew stronger, and he gazed up at Bragi. "Love you, nadad…"

"I love you too, nadadith," sobbed Bragi, sinking down to lie on the ground in front of his little brother. He pressed his forehead against Soren's. "Please Soren. Just a little while longer, the elves will be here soon. The elves will come. You'll be fine, you'll live, Soren, please, don't leave me, come on, Soren, please! The elves will come, the elves will help."

"Your, your Ada'll come f'r me," Soren promised, his voice barely louder than his shallow breaths. "You, you tell my… tell _our_ … Ada…"

And then he exhaled, and his eyes became blank, and he did not move again.

Fíli made no attempt to stop the sobs that broke from his lips, nor the shaking of his hands as he fumbled desperately for a pulse he knew he would not find. He took his other hand away from the wound and covered his eyes, but then he reached to the side and grabbed Bragi's arm.

 _I'm here,_ he wanted to say. _I don't know what you need from me, my friend, but I'm here._

 _I'm so sorry._

If surprise could have been felt through the grief that was turning his veins to red hot metal, Fíli would have been surprised that Bragi did not scream. He did not cry out, or roar in anger, or beg to know what Soren wanted his father to be told.

He simply closed his eyes, drew Soren's forehead close to his, and began to cry. His sobs were silent, but they grew stronger and stronger without sound, rocking his whole body as he wrapped his arms around Soren and drew him close. A soft whine was the only noise to escape him, and Fíli did not know what to do.

 _Yes, you do,_ a voice like Thorin's insisted in his mind. _Take stock of your surroundings. If someone you love dies in a fight you turn that grief into fuel for the fighting until the danger has passed._

Fíli looked up, ignoring the tears streaming down his own face, ignoring his own pain. He had to focus.

The orcs must have been beaten, because Vinca and Erestor were leading Ehren, Nori and Ori back towards the creek to reach the others.

But while the monster had been driven back into the water, it was far from dead. Arrows and knives and axes were embedded in its tentacles, and a few in its body, but it seemed to be able to ward off the warrior's blows more often than not. As Fíli watched, it seized Bilbo and dragged him into the air, but the hobbit did not even scream. Already, Kíli had cut him down. Glorfindel was making more progress, dancing over the tentacles as Legolas had, but he was repeatedly thrown back into the side of the mountain.

With a start, Fíli realised that he could no longer see Bifur or Bofur, and that he could not hear Bofin's cries anymore.

He had to help.

Fíli went to release Soren's hand, but he found that his own fingers would not move. If he let go – if he let go it became real, and Soren was gone.

Gathering what strength he had left, Fíli cleared his throat, and squeezed Bragi's arm. "Stay with him," he murmured. "I must, I must help the others."

Bragi's eyes opened, and they were burning with such a rage that Fíli let go of his arm. "Is that an order?"

"No," Fíli said. "Do what you need to do, Bragi."

With trembling fingers, Bragi closed Soren's eyes. "I will be back for you, brother."

And then he stood, in a movement so swift and strong that Fíli lost his breath. Bragi drew his sword, and his white brows sank low over eyes that burnt with bloodlust. He made no effort to wipe the tears from his cheeks, and his chest heaved with deep, fast breaths. The young dwarf's teeth were bared and his lips drawn into a wolf-like snarl that made him look almost deranged.

"Well?" he growled at Fíli, "Are you coming?"

Without waiting for an answer, he turned, and then charged straight into the water. Fíli scrambled to his feet, without releasing Soren's hand, and stared in awestruck horror at the white-haired warrior.

The water seemed to flee before him, even as it rose to up to his chin, allowing him to pass as swiftly as if he had been on land. Three tentacles shot towards him, but he severed them all with a single blow, and then let out a roar that drowned out all noise, and sent a sharp chill down Fíli's spine.

And then he thrust his sword into the body of the monster.

And it plunged it down until it reached the hilt.

A piercing shriek saw Fíli's shoulders rise towards his ears, and the creature's limbs fell limp. Unable to breathe, Fíli watched the thing fall slowly backwards into the water, and saw its body sink towards unspeakable depths.

He saw Bragi standing still in the water, doing nothing to get out of the way. Before any warning could be cried, a tentacle struck Bragi across the chest, and he did not fight it. His head disappeared below the water, and then Fíli found the strength to scream.

 _"Bragi!"_

Without thinking, he let Soren's hand slip through his fingers and plunged into the water himself. It was frigid, and filthy, but he could not bring himself to care. Because he knew that his grief and his guilt was nothing to Bragi's. Because he knew that if Kíli had been shot down, Fíli would let the dead monster drown him in the bowels of the earth, too.

Cries of his name scarcely met his ears – some seemed confused and others afraid, but Fíli dove beneath the water and they disappeared. He was not important now.

In the blackness of the water, he could see nothing. His eyes stung fiercely, unnaturally, and no matter how quick his strokes, he felt as though he was getting nowhere. Sense told him that somewhere, not far ahead, was a drop-off point, where the water grew deep, for such a creature could not have existed in water a dwarf could wade in. But Fíli could hardly see his own hands before him, let alone a drop into deeper darkness.

Then he saw a blur of white shoot up like a ghost, and he rose to the surface himself, with a desperate burst of hope. As Fíli surfaced, he saw Bragi shaking his head fiercely, and wiping the filthy water from his sealed eyes. Breathing a sigh of relief, Fíli swam slowly over, unsure if his presence would help or hurt the dwarf in front of him.

He was Soren's charge, after all. He was the reason Soren was dead.

It took Bragi a moment to notice him, and when he did it was confusion that Fíli saw in his eyes. There was no trace of the fury that had burnt mere moments before. He did not look like a dangerous warrior.

He looked like a lost dwarfling.

"I'm so sorry." Fíli's voice broke. There was nothing else to say. "Bragi, I – I'm sorry."

Bragi blinked, and then gazed at the filthy water. "I… I lost my sword."

Fíli nodded slowly. "We can fix that."

Bragi's eyes filled with tears. "I… I lost my Soren."

"I know," Fíli choked, unable to stop his own tears. "I know, Bragi, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Bragi howled, and then surged forward, his arms wrapping around Fíli. Fíli closed his eyes and hugged Bragi back, relief and grief and a thousand other emotions crashing against his self-control.

Finally, one of the cries from the shore caught his attention. "Fíli, what's happening?"

 _Kíli._

Fíli twisted towards his brother's voice and began to kick, swimming without releasing Bragi from his arms. He guided the both of them back to shore, and supported Bragi's weight as they staggered onto the bank.

"What happened?" Kíli demanded, his eyes wild with fear and his hands resting on both their shoulders. "Bragi? Fee, what's wrong with him?"

Fíli swallowed, and stared at the folk staring at him, their weapons held in limp hands, their eyes wide at the sudden end to such a fight. Then he glanced at Bragi, and knew that it was his job to speak.

But when he tried, only one, broken word would make it. "Soren…"

Bragi moaned, and Fíli was silenced by the tears in his throat. He looked away, down the bank, down towards Soren. He could not say it, but Kíli was there in front of him, and Fíli did not need to speak for his Kíli to understand him.

"No," Kíli breathed, shaking his head and looking from one to the other. "No!"

Bragi swayed, and Fíli began to stammer. "He, he needs a towel or a blanket or – shock, I think he's in shock…"

"Soren," Bragi whispered, stumbling away from Fíli, stumbling back down the bank. "I promised. Promised."

With a sob, Fíli nodded, and together they trudged back up the bank.

Ehren, Nori and Ori were lingering by Soren's body. Ehren was on his knees. Head in his hands. Nori was rubbing his shoulder. As they drew nearer, Ori met Fíli's eyes, shaking his head sadly.

Moaning, Kíli covered his mouth with his hand and turned away. Fíli could hear other exclamations of horror and denial and sorrow, but he could neither recognise nor understand them. He did not try to. Instead, he eased Bragi down onto the ground beside Soren, and took a blanket from Vinca to wrap around Bragi's shoulders.

Luno limped over and snuffled at Soren's face. Then he stiffened, and sent a mournful howl up into the night. The other wolves replied, and a raw lament rose around them, and Fíli reached out blindly. In a heartbeat, Kíli was there, taking him into his arms. Fíli held his brother with all the strength he had, and they leant on each other, and his mother appeared before him.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice low and trembling as she put a hand on Fíli's cheek. "He was a good lad."

Fíli nodded, closing his eyes and leaning into his mother's touch for a moment. Then, he had to let out a long breath, and open his eyes. "We must find the others," he said, his voice a little sore. "Make sure that no one else is hurt. We've got to find Bofin – figure out how we are to find the others."

Dís smiled, a proud, sad smile, and then kissed his forehead, and stroked Kíli's hair. "Aye, we must."

"Kíli!" cried Bilbo, and both princes jumped violently. Their father was standing on the pile of stone that had spilled out into the pool, and blocked the door to the mines. "We need you and the elves, come quickly!"

Without hesitating, Kíli began to sprint back to where the doors had been, Glorfindel and Erestor right behind him. Given that Kíli still had his hand, Fíli followed suit, and at the sight of him Bilbo nodded, but held up his hands at the others who had followed.

"No, stay back! I mean it, we can't crowd him and the rocks are loose, wait there! We'll send word in a minute, Dís, please, wait there!" Then he gestured for Fíli and Kíli to follow and began to wade through the knee-deep water around the fallen rocks.

"What happened?" asked Kíli, his hand tightening around his brother's.

"Bofin," Bilbo said, his voice shaking. He glanced over his shoulder at the others as they disappeared behind the fallen stone. "It's not good. Who's hurt over there?"

Fíli's throat closed up again, and looked desperately at Kíli, whose eyes filled with tears. It was the younger who answered. "Soren. Bilbo, he, he didn't make it."

Bilbo's mouth dropped open in horror. "No? No, he can't have – Fíli?"

Tears escaping once more, Fíli nodded dumbly, and Bilbo moaned. He threw his arms around Fíli and Kíli, and his whisper was choked with tears of his own.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Taking a deep breath, Bilbo pulled away, and put a hand on Fíli's cheek. When he spoke, his voice was oddly firm. "Did you see it happen, Fíli?"

"I," Fíli began, and then he took a deep breath and nodded. "I was there."

"Are you able to stay calm now?" Bilbo asked tightly. "I hate to ask it, Fíli, but if you are to panic you will upset Bofin and-"

"Bilbo!" cried Bofur's voice, desperate and stricken, from a spot hidden around the corner.

"I'm alright," said Fíli quickly, and Bilbo nodded, leading them quickly around the rocks.

And then Fíli stopped breathing. Bilbo was right. This was anything but good.

The cursed monster had brought the mountain down onto Bofin's legs.

The boy was lying between Bofur and Bifur, his head cushioned by his uncle's hat, but only the very tops of his thighs had escaped the falling stone. Pale as Soren, Bofin was sweating and shivering and breathing too quickly, too weakly. Fíli could not see any blood, but he was not entirely sure that was a good thing.

Beside him, one of the elves cursed in his own tongue, and Kíli let out a small whimper. Bilbo ran right over, sitting beside Bofur and taking Bofin's hand. "I found the elves, and a couple of rogue princes, too."

Fíli had not thought he had any reserves of morale or emotional strength left, but he drew out his last drop with a deep breath and clung to it. He was a Prince of Durin's line, and he would be as strong as his people – as his family – needed him to be.

As he jogged closer, Fíli could hear Bofin sobbing. "Please, please, Uncle, please help me, please! Don't, don't let them hurt me, please, please, Uncle!"

But it was not Bofur who replied. From the anguish carved into his face, Bofur did not look fully capable of speech. Bifur was murmuring quietly, but from what Fíli could hear, it was not even Khuzdul. It was nonsense, and there were tears in Bifur's eyes, and he did not seem to know what to do.

"No one's going to hurt you," soothed Bilbo, rubbing the dwarf's hand gently. "You know the elves are the best healers we have." With that, the hobbit raised his eyes pleadingly to Glorfindel and Erestor, but the elves were already striding over.

As Fíli sat at Bofur's side, and Kíli sank down at Bilbo's, Erestor examined the rocks, and Glorfindel knelt beside Bifur.

"Bofin," he said calmly, and the boy whined. "Bofin, look at me."

"Uncle," Bofin whispered, looking between Bifur and Bofur frantically, "Uncle, please…"

"It's alright," Bofur croaked, stroking Bofin's fringe from his clammy forehead. "It's alright, I won't let 'em hurt you. Not, not that they ever would. It's alright, Bofin, I'm here."

"Look at me," repeated Glorfindel gently, smiling when Bofin turned his wide eyes to the elf. "That's it. Now, how long have you been trapped? Since the rocks fell, or was it after?"

Bofin nodded jerkily, his fingers digging into the hands of Bilbo and Bofur. "When, when first they fell. The, the _thing_ grabbed me, but, but it let go and then – then…"

"I see," said Glorfindel, his long fingers resting on the side of Bofin's neck. The dwarf cringed into Bofur's side, but Glorfindel hummed gently. "It's alright. I just need to feel your pulse."

Bofin whimpered, and Bifur began to shush him gently, stroking back his hair without words.

Glorfindel looked sharply at Erestor, who had been inspecting the rocks. The latter shook his head slightly.

"How long would it take your kin to move this stone?" Erestor directed the question to Bofur, but it was Bifur who answered, speaking Khuzdul that Bilbo translated for the elves.

"With those of us here? A day at the least – the size of the rocks, way they're stacked, where we are here… And that's not taking into account the time taken to figure out the best way forward. It would take…" Bilbo's voice wavered, but he finished anyway. "Too long."

Erestor stared at Glorfindel, and then the two began speaking rapidly in elvish. Though he had picked up some of the language over the years, it was too fast and flowy for Fíli to keep up with, but Bilbo and Kíli listened like rabbits. At least they did until Glorfindel glanced at Bofin, and then spoke to Kíli softly, words that Fíli could translate himself.

 _"Keep him talking. Awake, alert."_

Kíli nodded, and began to rub Bofin's shoulder, not missing the way that the boy stared in terror at the two elves. "Why do you fear the elves now, mizimith? You know they have been friends for decades, and you know we would never let them hurt you."

Bofin moaned, trying to inch closer to Bofur. " _Stories,_ they, they win your trust and then they, they torture you and they kill you and-"

"Oh, sweet-pea, you're confused," said Bilbo gently. "And that's alright – very understandable. But you're thinking of ghost stories, little one. Nothing more. The elves healed Fíli and I, after the Battle of Five Armies, and then again in Mirkwood – you remember that, do you not?"

Bofin nodded shakily.

"Exactly," the hobbit murmured. "We will not let them hurt you, lad. We've got you."

Even as he hummed in assent, Fíli glanced at Glorfindel, and his heart twisted painfully. The elf's eyes were closed, and he looked pained, but he nodded slowly.

"Alright," said the elf, "Bofur, may I speak with you?"

"No!" whimpered Bofin, grasping at his uncle's sleeve. "Please, don't leave me, don't leave Uncle-"

"Just tell me here," said Bofur, turning hopeless eyes to Glorfindel.

The elf took a deep breath. "You must understand, we do not have much time, here. We do not know what that creature was, or if there are more, and there may yet be more orcs to come. But more importantly, it is too dangerous to shift the rocks. It would take too long to do so safely, and even if we could remove them immediately, I fear that the damage to Bofin's legs is already very severe. Erestor is about to tourniquet both legs to stop Bofin's own blood poisoning him, but it will not be painless. Then…"

Bofin gave a low wail closed his eyes, sobs shaking his chest and sending tears down his cheeks. His uncle's reaction was all but identical, and Fíli wrapped his arm around Bofur's shoulders as the trembling toymaker sobbed. The prince's own stomach was heaving and his mind was spinning, and he could see that Kíli was trembling, and leaning into Bilbo's side. Bifur's head was bowed, and he was shaking worse than Kíli. Bilbo was whiter than paper, but was the only one who managed to continue murmuring soft assurances to the terrified Bofin.

They all knew what Glorfindel was saying.

Bofin would lose his legs, or he would lose his life.

 **I hope that you liked that one, I know that not much has changed… Onwards!**


	31. Chapter 31: The Two Tombs

**Chapter Thirty-One: The Two Tombs**

Kíli fought against his tears with all the strength that he had. He could not cry yet, could not break yet – not while Bofin needed him to be strong.

And Bofin needed all the strength he could get.

He whimpered and squirmed weakly, fighting against the sleep tonic Bilbo had all but forced down his throat. Head cradled in Bofur's lap, Bofin's pleading gaze roved from one uncle to the other, but only Bifur seemed able to offer any comfort. His words were meaningless, unknown even to Kíli, but they streamed freely from his lips and his hands combed through Bofin's hair.

It was not enough.

Not when Bofur had shut down completely. The only part of him that moved were his tears, which trailed into his moustache and fell from his nose. Hollow eyes, mouth ajar, white hands – Bofur looked more like a ghost than a dwarf.

He looked like he had been caught in his first battle, too soon, before he was ready – like a terrified and hopeless child too numb to move and too tortured to wail. And Kíli could not blame him – he was close to sobbing himself – but Bofur's torment was doing nothing to ease his nephew.

"Uncle," begged Bofin, slurring a little as his tongue stumbled over the words, "Uncle, please… please…" When Bofur closed his eyes, Bofin turned to the hobbit. "Bilbo… Bilbo, please-"

"Hush now, lad," murmured Bilbo, a slight tremble betraying his anguish. "Sleep now, we are here."

Bofin sobbed, and the sound was as weak as a sigh. Kíli shuddered, and glanced up at Glorfindel, who lingered but two feet away. The elf smiled sadly when he met Kíli's eye, but looked away when Kíli's gaze drifted down to the bright, clean sword that hung at his side. Kíli swallowed.

Behind Glorfindel, Fíli and Erestor were tending their fire, using the skills of elves and dwarves to make it hot. Hot enough.

"I'll wake," Bofin whimpered, "I'll wake an' they'll be gone…"

Bofur groaned and dropped his forehead onto Bofin's, his whole body trembling. Bifur rested his head on Bofur's shoulder for a moment, and then looked up. Resolute.

For the first time, Kíli caught some of his words.

 _"Strength...in blood… endure…"_

" _We_ will be here," Bilbo promised, squeezing Bofin's hand tighter. "We will be here, and you will be safe. And it… it will be better not to see them go, little one."

Half wondering at Bilbo's ability to keep talking when his own throat was stoppered, Kíli nestled further into his father's side, humming his agreement, and tried to calm his breathing. Hearing Kíli panic would do nothing good for Bofin.

"Ada," gasped Bofin, his eyes widening. "Ada's gon' cry… Ama, Ama'll _die_ …"

"No."

The croaking voice made Kíli jump, violently. He had almost forgotten that Bofur could speak.

"No," Bofur repeated, his head rising and his trembling fingers brushing Bofin's fringe from his now open eyes. "Amad will be fine, and so will Adad. So will you. I promise, Bofin, I won't go anywhere, I won't let _you_ go anywhere. And I won't let you give your parents a heart attack."

Bofin's eyelids where fluttering now, and his eyes were glazing over, but what focus he had was trained on his uncle, and a single word slipped from his quivering lips. "P'mise?"

"I promise," sobbed Bofur, and Kíli tasted the salt of his own tears reaching his lips.

He brushed his shoulder across his face and dropped his head onto Bilbo's shoulders, while his trembling thumb kept drawing nonsense onto the Bofin's arm. Bifur

Bofin sighed another sob, and then let his eyes close. Within moments, his frightened, hitched breaths had smoothed into sleep sighs, and Glorfindel stepped forward. Bofur did not look up.

"You save him," he growled, a sound like a snared wolf warning away a hunter. "You get him out of here, you save him."

"I will do all that I can do, and that is not little," said the elf, bowing. Then, he turned to Kíli. "However, we will need more space, and the others ought to know more. Kíli? Fíli?"

The elf's meaning struck Kíli straight away, but Fíli simply blinked, staring at the fire he had built and rocking slightly on the spot. He had not spoken a word since they got here, had not gained any colour to his grey cheeks.

Hesitating, Kíli glanced up at Glorfindel. How could they leave now? The elf bowed his head, and tapped the hilt of his freshly cleaned sword.

"You will not want to watch."

For the first time, a full sob broke from Bilbo, and he twisted to hold Kíli tightly, pressing his forehead to the young dwarf's. "Go. Tell your mother what's happening. Look after Fíli."

Kíli squeezed his eyes closed, but nodded, standing on knees that felt like they were made of water. He stumbled around Bofin, around Bofur, and took Fíli's arm. His brother did not fight him, and allowed himself to be led to his feet, but he swayed, and Kíli dragged Fíli's arm up over his own shoulder.

"Call us," Kíli said hoarsely, his throat protesting. "If something happens?"

"We will," Bilbo vowed, dabbing his eyes on his handkerchief. "Go now."

Kíli swallowed, and led Fíli out into the shallows of the dark water. He did not want to touch it again, he did not want _Fíli_ to touch it again – he did not want Fíli to disappear again beneath the surface, yet they had little choice.

He did not want to walk around those rocks.

Did not want to see what was on the other side.

Did not want to acknowledge that Soren – Soren was –

Kíli stumbled and sent them both towards the water, and he only just managed to catch Fíli before his brother's nose hit the water. He took a sharp breath, and pulled the both of them back up onto his feet, while Fíli gasped and blinked like one struck over the head.

"I'm sorry," Kíli panted. "I'm sorry, Fíli."

Fíli did not speak. He just pressed his forehead against Kíli's, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Kíli swallowed, and began to walk once more. He had to be strong now, had to look after Fíli. He would cry later. He would mourn when they were safer. When Fíli no longer looked as though he were about to collapse.

As soon as they came in sight of the others, Dís and Nori charged into the water.

"What is happening, what can you tell us?" pressed Dís, putting a hand on each of their cheeks.

Kíli took a deep breath, and glanced at Fíli. He was staring down the beach, down towards –

Kíli would have to do the talking this time. "Bofin… He's alive. They can save him. But – they'll – they're going… he will lose his legs."

With a soft groan, Dís hung her head, but Nori's reaction was a little louder.

" _What_? That elf said he was crushed, we could move the stones-"

"We couldn't," Kíli moaned, a slight sob shaking his voice. "It would've brought the mountain down upon him, there wasn't _time,_ they're too big, too high, there wasn't… Nori, please – don't, don't blame the elves. Not now…"

Nori glowered at the pile of rocks, and then turned away. Kíli saw his hand move up to knock tears from his eyes. Kíli swallowed, and his own tears burned to be released.

"Come," Dís said softly, taking Fíli's hand. "Let's get you both out of the water. Someone get me a blanket, he's soaked to the bone."

Kíli blinked – he had not even noticed. He was not surprised that it was Vinca who hurried over, wrapping her fur lined cloak over Fíli's shoulders before Kíli could even move.

"We do not have time to grieve." Dís' voice rang out loud and clear across the lake, and Kíli shuddered. "We have suffered great wounds here, yet we cannot afford to linger long. We must regroup, decide what is to be done. And while the elves help Bofin, we… We must attend to the dead."

Kíli's eyes drifted up to the bank, to Soren lay, to where Ehren held Bragi with his head bowed low, to where Ori stood guard with tears glistening on his face.

"How?" asked Vinca, her voice trembling. She was standing very close to Dís, so close that their elbows touched, and her arms were wrapped very tightly around her waist. "We, we don't have any shovels, and we can't, we can't – he, we…"

"We have no lack of stone," said Dís mournfully, turning to the rubble of the doors. For a moment, she stood still and stared, and then she raised his head and drew back her shoulders. "The doors of Durin will make a fitting cairn." She turned to Kíli. "Will we be able to move rock from his side without disturbing Bofin?"

Kíli took a deep breath. "I, I think so. It's more precarious on the other side, and the rocks are bigger."

Dís let her tears flow freely as she nodded. "Very well. If Bragi agrees, that is what we shall do."

It was slow work. To be safe, they took stone from the top and edges of the rubble, and piece by broken piece they began to build, until they had a steadfast wall as high as their thighs. As they worked the hours dripped by, and the elves, Bifur, Bofur and Bilbo returned, with Bofin cradled in his uncle's arms. He still slept, and none could stop their eyes from watering at the bandaged stumps of his legs.

Without speaking, Bifur, Bilbo and the elves began to help with the building. Bofur sat with his nephew in his lap, and played a quiet dirge on the flute that was ever tucked in his sleeve. It was all he had the strength to do, all he could do to help, and even Bragi understood. The wolves that circled in an endless guard of the banks howled softly along, all save Nyla. In the absence of Bróin, she curled up close to Bofin, and watched him with unfailing eyes.

Ori was knee deep in the water when he found it – a smooth faced slab of rock that glittered faintly in the moonlight. Alone, he hauled it to shore, and alone he set to work. No one could engrave stone as fast as he could, nor could they create characters of such beauty. Ori wept silently as he worked around the dimming veins of light, beneath an emblem of a long dead king.

It was Dís who announced in a grave voice that the cairn was high enough. That the time had come. The moon was only just past its peak, but few could believe that mere hours had passed. It felt as though they had been building for years.

Wordlessly, Bifur lay his blanket on the ground within the cairn, spreading out the creases as if tucking in a child, and bundled up his good cloak to lay as a pillow at one end. Then, he sank to his knees beside the grave, and closed his eyes.

Bragi carried Soren to the cairn. His knees trembled, and his tears fell upon his brother's chest, but he did not falter. He pressed his forehead against Soren's one last time, and then lowered him onto Bifur's blanket, resting his head on the prepared cloak. His pale fingers combed through Soren's hair, so it would fall just so around his face, and then Bragi gently tugged Soren's beard one last time.

Trembling worse than ever, Fíli passed Soren's sword and bow to Bragi. The albino held them close for a moment, before gently placing them either side of Soren.

Then, Bragi took a knife to his own hair, and severed a thin braid the length of his arm, one that had hung over his shoulder longer than Kíli had known him. With a soft sob, Bragi placed it neatly beside the bow, and then folded the beaded end into Soren's hand. From Soren's body, he took a small knife, and three beads. One of these, he would later braid into his own hair. The others he strung onto a chain around his neck, until he could deliver them to Soren's parents.

Then Bragi stood, and let the others come forward. Nori let fall a bracelet by Soren's head, and Fíli placed one of his best knives beside Soren's sword. Then, to the shock of even Kíli, he removed the beads from the end of his moustache, and lay them in Soren's palm. He tugged Soren's beard, and then collapsed beside Bifur, grabbing Kíli's hand so tight it hurt.

Next came Dís, and she removed one of the rings that never left her fingers. White gold, it had been her grandmother's. She placed it by Soren's fingertips, and then backed away. After only a moment's hesitation, Bofur stepped away from his nephew for a moment, to lay down his flute by Soren's sword.

Vinca had ventured a few steps into the woods, and returned with winter flowers. Flowers that spoke more words than she ever could. Heather, for admiration. Cyclamen, for resignation. And for goodbye. She tied together a bundle with a ribbon from her own hair, and laid them by Soren's head. When she offered Bilbo flowers, he took them at once, and brought out a small trinket that, for a moment, Kíli could not place. But then he saw that it was one of his father's brass buttons. Bearing the symbol of an acorn.

Death. And life.

Kíli swallowed, and watched Bilbo place his flowers down.

Then, with shaking hands, Ehren removed the silver chain that he had worn since coming of age. Sobbing freely, he laid it beside Soren's neck, and moved as though to tug Soren's beard. But then he turned away, and covered his face with his arm.

Then, Kíli let the sobs leave him. He took the first bead that he had ever forged from his hair, and slid the stems of Vinca's remaining flowers through it. He pressed it to his lips for a moment, and then let his pale tribute fall onto Soren's chest.

Her voice trembling, Vinca sang in a low voice, a wordless hymn that filled the silence left by Bofur's flute, as the others began to stack stones into a roof. It was a little slower, with the workers adamant that this cairn would never collapse, but the skill of the dwarves was not wrongly lauded. Halfway between midnight and dawn, they completed their work, and then Ori revealed his labour to Bragi.

The albino let out a low wail, seizing Ori into a brief embrace, and then together they set the stone atop the cairn, above Soren's head. Durin's emblem shone in the moonlight, the last whole remnant of the ancient door, and beneath it were carved fresh words, in the most beautiful runes that Ori ever had created.

 _Soren, son of Ragan_

 _Truest of guards, greatest of friends, bravest of sons_

 _In sleep eternal here he will rest,_

 _The Doors of Durin upon his breast_

 _Which evermore shall bring starlight,_

 _To banish the darkness of unending night._

* * *

When Bróin was a child, he had been enamoured with the idea of Moria. A kingdom like no other – the first hall of the dwarves, a mithril mine, a stronghold in the orc-riddled Misty Mountains – it had been stories of Moria he had searched for, when other children sang of Erebor.

To Bróin, Moria had seemed more tangible. There was a dragon in Erebor, and he had never heard of dwarves killing a dragon before. Of course, he was sure it _could_ be done, and Durin or another hero must have done so at some point, but orcs were much easier foes to fight. They had to be, or the men would not laugh so much when they returned from skirmishes in the Blue Mountains. They almost always returned. Why should Moria be any different?

When Bombur gently told his children that he and Uncle Bofur and Uncle Bifur would be going to reclaim their homeland, Bróin's blood had run cold at the name of Erebor. Why choose Erebor when Moria was closer, and not infested by a dragon?

But of course, Bróin was the strong son, so he had decided that Adad would kill the dragon just fine, and be home in time for Durin's day.

Obviously, that was not how it happened, and Bróin had left on his own adventure (as he liked to think of it) when their mother took them to join Bombur in the reclaimed city. Still, though, Bróin dreamed of Moria. Of Khazad-dûm, of the mines, of the starlit doors.

Then, Erebor had become his home, and its soul seeped into Bróin's, and his dreams changed. He would reconquer Moria, lead the charge and see it restored under Thorin's kingship. And then he would go home, and return to the light-filled city for holidays. How great it would be for his hobbit kin, to have such a city give them passage through the Misty Mountains! Their journeys would be so much easier, so much brighter, and full of wonder at the middle, as well as the beginning and end.

While other children played games of fighting dragons, Bróin and Nelly had played at reclaiming Moria.

He had never really realised what it would be like to enter a dead city.

A tomb – that's what Boromir had called it, whispering to Aragorn as they passed deeper into the mines, and Bróin's heart seized in agreement.

Moria was a tomb.

 _Perhaps, even his brother's tomb._

At that thought, Bróin clenched his jaw shut and took a breath through his nose. Bofin was alive, and he had no proof otherwise.

Outside the glow of Gandalf's staff, there was only darkness, a black so deep that Bróin could hardly see, and the hobbits could not see at all. Bróin had imagined cobwebs and dust, and even pitfalls and old bones, but he had never envisioned the darkness. It was lapping around his ankles, threatening to swallow him whole. Like that monster –

 _Bofin was alive. There was no proof otherwise._

The pitfalls and fissures that they passed reminded him of wide open mouths, screaming, lacking teeth. He knew he was not the only one to loathe them – it took the company near ten minutes to coax Pippin into leaping across the largest gap in their path. When they were not persuading the youngest hobbit to vault seven foot fissures, Frodo and Aragorn were explaining their motives to Gandalf, and Bróin paid them no attention.

The stone Bróin stepped on felt distant, foreign. In his daydreams it had welcomed him, had thanked him for freeing it from the foul feet of the orcs – but this was no dream. It was not even a nightmare.

Bróin had freed nothing. Had not reclaimed so much as an inch of dirt. He was not the saviour of this city – just another pair of feet walking in the darkness, trying not to be seen. A spider scuttling across the floor. He had never felt so small.

He had never felt so unsure of his emotions.

He thought he should hate the dark city, the deadened mirror of his childhood dreams. The doors that came down and wrenched Bofin away, the walls that held despair in and kept hope out, the abyss on either side of the walkway that would turn a slip into death.

It should be a place he would look back on in disgust, in sorrow and fear, and those feelings did take regular swings at his heart. But Bróin's heart grieved for what Moria had been, and what it could be. He yearned for a time when it would be Khazad-dûm again –Dwarrowdelf, and not Moria, the black pit. He ached at the prospect of leaving it thus, abandoned and desolate, and he felt a great affection eat into his bones. It was not the same as the love he held for Erebor, nor the nostalgia for his childhood home in Ered Luin, but it was deep all the same. A respect, an honour, a spark of care for a home that was lost. A city that had survived thousands of years to be gutted and abandoned, lost to history. Bofin was all about history, reading into the past. Bróin preferred making history breathe again.

 _No proof otherwise._

 _No proof I've killed my brother._

No – Bróin paused, wrapping an arm around his chest to steady himself. If, by some impossibility, Bofin was dead, it was not Bróin who killed him. It was that monster, that thing, and his brother's own choice to follow.

But why? That was something Bróin still could not fathom. Bofin hated travelling – he had even debated the journey to Frodo's birthday party. He hated conflict, too, and was less use with a sword than the younger hobbits, with the possible exception of Pearl. Despite her grace as a dancer, and Dwalin's exhaustive attempts at teaching, Pearl was still rather poor when it came to swordplay. And so was Bofin – so what on earth had driven him to –

"Omph!"

Bróin staggered as someone very small bumped into him from behind, and then gave a weak smile over his shoulder to a startled hobbit. "Sorry, Merry."

"Nah, that was my fault," the hobbit murmured back, a half-smile twitching across his unusually colourless cheeks. "Should've watched where I was going." He paused, staring intently at Bróin with his sharp brown eyes. "How're you doing?"

"Fine and dandy," Bróin said, raising an eyebrow.

Merry snorted, and Bróin turned back to the front, starting to follow Nelly again. She glanced back at him with pursed lips, but did not say anything. Instead, she cocked her head to touch her shoulder with her ear, smiled a little and then looked turned back ahead. It was their gesture for 'here if you need me.'

Tears dammed in Bróin's throat, and he swallowed, gazing down at his feet. One foot after the other. One step, two steps.

 _"One step, two steps," sang Marta, helping Bróin into his trousers. His foot got stuck in the bottom, and he grunted, kicking as hard as he could to push it through, and his mother laughed. Bofin ran past, knocking Bróin off his feet._

Why? Why had Bofin come? They were not close, and never had been. Bofin would look after the twins and the little ones, and Bróin would look after himself. Perhaps he had come to take the hobbits home – Bofin had always been particularly protective over Sam – but no, he had run straight to Bróin. Grabbed Bróin's arms.

Why?

"Well," said the wizard, and his voice rang like a shout in the darkness. "I think that will do for today. I have no memory of this place, and deciding such things is always more effective after a rest."

Bróin frowned, peering around Nelly to see what Gandalf meant by 'decisions.' They had reached a crossroads, it seemed – there were three large archways, leading in three directions, and beside them an old stone door. Though his mind and body both screamed for rest, Bróin did not much like the idea of camping here, on an exposed path, with three open passages ahead and one behind.

But then Gandalf pushed the stone door, and it swung back easily to reveal a chamber cut into the rock. Bróin breathed a sigh of relief as the wizard relaxed, pouring light into the little room.

"We can rest here," Gandalf declared, "but take care. There is a large hole in the centre of the floor, and it would not do for one of you to fall in."

The company spilled inside the chamber, and Bróin glanced only briefly at the hole. It looked like a large well, and a stone lid lay beside it in two pieces. Curiosity was the very last thing on his mind.

Wedging himself right at the back of the chamber, Bróin leant his head against the wall and tried to resist the urge to hug his knees to his chest. He could not remember ever being so tired, so worn down. He was not sure he would care at all if he rolled right into the well.

"Here."

Bróin flashed Nelly as much of a smile as he could gather, and took the bread from her pale fingers. "Ta."

She nodded, and began making a nest out of her bedroll, and nudging Bróin into the task of setting out his own. He moved blindly through the familiar motions, wishing that sleep would just take him, until a soft 'plunk' sounded in the dark, magnified by the silence around them.

"What was that?" demanded Gandalf, as all eyes shot to the well.

And saw Pippin stumbling away from it. Going pale.

"I, I, I'm sorry," stammered the young hobbit. "I just wondered how deep it was and…"

Bróin groaned, and Nelly swore, but Gandalf looked almost relieved as he swooped forward.

"Fool of a Took!" he snarled, peering down the well. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!" Bróin frowned, and Pippin opened his mouth but Gandalf held up a hand. "Now be quiet!"

An awful silence slipped over them, and seemed to fill every crevice of the room. Nelly was glowering at Pippin, and Bróin knew that the moment Gandalf deemed speech allowed she would let her tongue loose. For his own part, Bróin was both annoyed and disappointed in Pippin – he had never expected him to do something as foolish as _that_ – but he quickly found that he did not have the strength to feel angry.

A faint knocking sound rose from the depths, and Bróin bristled. They stopped, their echoes died, and then they were repeated. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Tap, tap, tap-tap. Were they signals? Bróin's hand rose to his sword hilt and his heart picked up speed, but then the sound faded. He counted his breath several hundred times before finally, Gimli broke the silence.

"That was the sound of a hammer," he said, his voice remarkably calm.

"Yes," Gandalf mused, stroking his beard, "and I don't like it. But we have little choice. It may have nothing to do with us at all, though it is more likely that Peregrin disturbed something that would be best left alone. Let us hope we can rest in peace."

"Should we not move?" asked Nelly sharply. "If he has alerted the enemy to our whereabouts…"

"Moria is a large place." Gandalf sighed heavily, and sat down on the ground. "To pinpoint our location from so little a pebble would not be so simple, and I do not yet know which way we should go. A wrong turn would mean disaster. Moreover, you are in need of rest. We cannot go on much further without someone stumbling into death in this darkness – when did you last rest?"

Bróin cast his mind back, but it stumbled over hours and days of haste and horror. Aragorn answered. "Last night, we slept a few hours each. We had to wait for the light. And we sat a while at the gates. Waiting for the stars."

"Loathe as I am to admit it," added Boromir, "we are spent. Without rest we have little hope, Nelly."

"We shall set up a watch," decreed Gandalf, his sharp eyes pinpointing Pippin. " _You_ shall take the first watch, as a reward for your stupidity. If you hear another sound that comes not from us, you wake me immediately."

Bróin sank down onto his bedroll, as did most of the others, but Nelly stalked straight over to her brother. Bróin turned his face away, but he still heard every word. He did not think he had ever heard such fury in her voice.

"For Mahal's _sake_ , Pippin, could you be more of a damned idiot? 'Oh, I'm mature, Nelly, I can do this Nelly!' – you can't, and you know you can't. You just risked our lives, you just risked _everything,_ because you 'wanted to know how deep it was.' Well, I'm sick of it! Either you grow up, or I'll beat you myself and tie you to a tree so you can't curse our path any further!"

"Nelly," Merry began, but Nelly cut over him with a voice as sharp as her knives.

"You're my brother and I love you, but by Mahal Pippin, I mean it. You're going to get yourself killed, and you're going to take us down with you. I told you not to come. You should have listened to me."

With that, she turned, and stormed back to her bedroll, curling up in a blanket and turning her face towards the wall.

"Pip," Merry began, but then he trailed off, and Pippin did not respond.

The awkward quiet was quick to pull the men and Gimli into sleep, and soon Bróin heard the soft snores of Frodo and Sam as well. Beside him, Nelly was snuffling, her breath hitching slightly in a way that Bróin recognised. But her face was turned away from him, and he knew she did not want his comfort, so he closed his eyes and let her cry herself to sleep.

But still, sleep would not take him. Not even when Nelly's sobs slipped into snores, and Merry's breathing grew slow and deep. He felt the minutes drip through his fingers, and despite the fatigue crushing him like a thousand stones –

Bofin.

He sat up, and shoved his knuckles into his eyes. _No proof otherwise. No proof otherwise._

Another soft, sniffling sound caught his attention, and he glanced up at Pippin. The youngest hobbit was curled up by the door, his arms locked around his knees, and his gaze flicking between the door and the hole. He ran his sleeve over his nose and took a deep breath, a breath that shuddered.

Bróin closed his eyes. He was too tired to tell if Nelly gave Pippin what he deserved. She was right that he put them in danger. Right that he was an idiot, that he should have known better. Right that they may be slaughtered for his curiosity's sake. But Bróin was too tired to care. He stood up, his booted feet making scare more noise than a hobbit's as he wove through slumbering legs to reach his cousin.

"Hey, Pip," he murmured, grief and fatigue making his voice feel very tight. "You get some sleep. I'll take this watch."

Pippin's eyes flickered to Gandalf. The wizard's eyes were closed, but everyone knew that meant very little when it came to Gandalf. Bróin smiled sadly.

"I mean it. I can't sleep. No point us both sitting up."

Pippin nodded gratefully, but then he paused. His lips pursed, as if he was trapping his words inside, but it took only a moment for them to spill out. "I really am sorry," he said, his voice catching. "I wasn't thinking, she's right, I was just so tired and curious, and I'm sorry, Bróin. I didn't mean to put anyone in danger."

"I know," the dwarf promised, squeezing Pippin's shoulder. "It's alright. I know."

"Do you…" Pippin shuffled awkwardly, scratching at the back of his neck the way that he always did when trying to act like Merry. "Do you want to talk, about, uh…"

Bróin shook his head. "It's alright. Just sleep."

Finally, Pippin nodded, and then scampered back into place beside Merry. Putting his stubborn eyes to use, Bróin copied Pippin's former motion of turning his head from the door to the hole. He could see a little outside the door – not much, but he could make out the murky passageways – but down the well, he could see nothing. It seemed unfathomably deep, but Pippin's stone had fallen to water somewhere.

Deep, dark water. Like the lake outside the mountain.

"May I join you?"

Bróin started, but his hand left his sword hilt as quickly as it had moved there when he registered Boromir's voice. "Of course."

The man sat down beside him with a sigh. "Sleep evades me, too." After a moment, he added, "You are doing very well, you know. Your brother will be proud when he hears of it."

Slightly surprised by Boromir's words, Bróin gazed at the man's shadowy face. "You did not say 'if'."

"No." Boromir smiled. "I did not, did I?"

Bróin's lip twitched into a half smile of thanks, and a comforting silence fell around them. It was a feeling of safety akin to that of a favourite blanket – you knew that its presence offered little to no protection, but felt safer with it there all the same. It was the same feeling that his older family members and even Frodo could bring – the feeling he had always associated with an older brother. A feeling he had never felt from Bofin.

He hung his head.

"You are doing well," Boromir said softly, "but remember that you are not here alone. If you are in need of anything, by all means ask for it."

"Thanks," muttered Bróin, but if he was honest, he was unsure of what he needed, other than the sleep that danced just out of reach.

After a few moments, Boromir spoke again. "Forgive me, if I pry, and by all means do not answer if you do not wish to, but I was wondering about your family…"

Bróin frowned slightly. "What about it?"

"Well, and I mean no offense, but you are younger than the others, in a manner of speaking. Yet you seemed less worried than the others about the approach and reaction of your elders, and you appeared more irritated than alarmed at your brother's presence, at first." Boromir paused, as if waiting to see if he had upset Bróin. Then he interpreted Bróin's silence as permission to continue, correctly. "I wondered if you believe your taking this journey would have little effect on your family?"

"They are all my family," Bróin said quietly, looking at Frodo.

"Indeed," said Boromir, running a hand through his hair and dropping the subject with equal grace.

"You ought to braid it."

The man frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"You do that a lot," Bróin nodded at the man's hand. "If your hair gets in your face, you should braid it."

Boromir grinned. "Among my people only the women wear braids, Master Dwarf."

The comfortable silence returned, and Bróin pondered on the man's analysis. Then, with a deep sigh, he spoke.

"I have five brothers, Master Boromir, and three sisters. For a dwarf, that is more children than they could dream of. My parents would mourn if I fell, but they would recover, and recover far quicker than the guardians of the others. They have four sons and three daughters to fill the gap. In that sense, I have less to worry about than the others." He sighed. "Besides, I have always been the problematic one. I doubt they'll even be surprised."

For a long while, Boromir did not speak. When he did, his voice was much sadder than before. "The gap will always be hard to fill."

Bróin shrugged. "You have but one brother."

"Yes," Boromir said, fixing Bróin with piercing eyes. "And I know what I would do to protect him. As do you. What you have forgotten is that your brothers will also seek to protect you."

Bróin felt tears rising in his throat and clenched his teeth. "It is different. We are not close."

"Yet the love is no less."

"No, but…" Bróin could feel everything fighting to reach the surface – already tears were leaking from his eyes. He brushed his sleeve angrily across his face. By Mahal, he was old enough for this quest, he was too old to cry. "But…"

"You did not think your brother cared as much as you did, did you?" Boromir asked gently, and Bróin glared tearfully at him. Why did he have to hit the nail on the head?

"Why did he come?" were the words that broke from Bróin's lips. "Why?"

"Because he does," sighed Boromir, his own eyes heavy with sorrow. "He cares for you."

"It can't be that simple!" hissed Bróin, because if it was not a hiss it would be a wail, and he did not want anyone else to wake.

"Then you must keep yourself in good health, so that one day you can ask him to elaborate," said Boromir firmly. "You will see that day come to pass, Bróin. We will fulfil our quest, and Bofin will see it too."

Bróin nodded shakily, wiping at his eyes once again. "You sound very sure of that."

"What is the alternative? If I worried every moment that Faramir is slain in Gondor in my absence, I would never be able to focus. I have no proof he is dead, so he is alive. And I believe the same for Bofin." Boromir ruffled Bróin's hair gently. When the dwarf did not reply, he added softly, "Get some sleep. You need it more than all of us."

"I'm not denying that," Bróin murmured. "But I do not know how to get it."

"Perhaps," said an unexpected voice, "I could help with that."

And as he uttered the spell to send the boy to sleep, Gandalf felt his heart grow heavier. The logic that Frodo and Aragorn had described to him on the way through the mines was sound, and somehow that made things worse. Perhaps sentiment _had_ wrongfully overtaken sense. The wizard himself had insisted on the importance of trusting to love and loyalty over strength of arms, and physically, the young ones were capable, though Pippin's mental capacity could be argued. Gandalf worried especially for Pippin. He was still so young, so foolish...

And then there was the matter of Dís' pregnancy. An unforeseen and quite probably tragic danger that was added to either scenario. Gandalf knew that Bilbo did not know – the hobbit would never have allowed his wife to leave Rivendell if he had known. He would have stayed with her before he let that happen. And Dís was in significant danger – yet they could not turn back to help.

There seemed to be a secret on the tip of Frodo's tongue, a tale he longed to tell, but would not. Gandalf could not help but remember Bilbo telling him of Frodo's reaction to his parents' deaths, when the dwarf who murdered them scared him into silence. If he thought silence could protect his kin, Frodo would keep the most poisonous of secrets. But he had not acted rashly. Save the hesitation at the gates, Frodo had acted perfectly within reason.

Yes, Gandalf understood them.

He wished that he did not, that he could trap them in Lothlórien under the protection of Galadriel and Celeborn, and preserve their innocence a little longer, but Bróin's haunted eyes and the mutters of Pippin's nightmares reminded him that their innocence was already cracked. A broken mirror that would not hold for much longer. No matter how he wished to protect them, or how fiercely their parents wished to rein them back, the brave young folk had sealed their own fates.

This was the fellowship as it was meant to be.

And Gandalf knew it.

 **That chapter was not any easier to rewrite than it was to write.**

 **:'(**


	32. Chapter 32: Pony Tales

**I hope you enjoy this one! A slightly lighter scene for you, I hope!**

 **Chapter Thirty-Two: Pony Tales**

Odo the pony did not know have an extensive vocabulary, but if he had, disgruntled would have been his word of choice to describe his current feeling.

As it was, he simply stewed in his indignation, and trotted further and further up the mountain. He could see a faint glow on the path, and a gentle tug in his gut old him to follow it, so he had been for a long time. Night had come, and passed, and day was reaching its peak. In the light, he huffed and whinnied his resentment to the rocks around him, and to the little birds that flittered over them, and made the mountain their home.

His Master had sent him away – him, _Odo_ , the mountain pony who trekked where great horses dared not, and climbed as well as the goats of the faraway mountains! True, his dwarf had promised that they would reunite, that Odo would find the way home, and true, Odo had no desire to enter the deep dark of the mines. The good wolves had spoken to him in the tongue of animals, telling him of his Master's reluctance, of his fear for Odo's welfare. And Odo understood that. He appreciated that. His dwarf was a good master. But Odo ran with wolves and held his own, and he would ride into a forest fire, if that was where Master Gimli would lead him.

It was for his Master that he left without complaint. When the elf finished speaking, and the soft glow appeared on the path, he had followed it, because it would be more difficult for Master Gimli if he stayed. But still, this was not how he wanted to return to the mountain of his birth. Alone, unsaddled. The blood of wild mountain ponies ran through him, but he did not feel wild or free. He felt cast away, alone, and disgruntled.

Not that he knew most of these words. He was, after all, not privy to the human-like intelligence of Beorn's wolves, and there were few words that he understood at all. Tossing his head, he let out another disgruntled whicker, and sped into a gallop. The cold wind blew his mane behind him, and the ground beneath his hooves threatened to trip him, but it was no match for a pony of Erebor. The sound of his hooves was a thunder, and they hit flint, and cast sparks into the sky.

Before him, the glow of the path grew lighter, and the call in his gut was to slow.

 _Careful, careful, careful…_

He neighed in glorious protest and pushed his legs faster. Up, up, up, he was going up and over, and then down to the lands of the skin-changers, and through the forest of elves, and back o the mountain of his birth. That was where he was going, but first he would go up –

 _Careful, careful, careful…_

Up! Up! Up!

He rode until his heart was racing, until his breath came in heavy pants – until he reached the final stretch before the summit of the mountain, and cloud shrouded all that he could see.

All but the path, which glowed stronger than ever beneath his feet. Triumph swelled in him, and he turned to gloat at his victory, to show the wolves that he was as quick and skilled as they were, but then he hung his head.

His breath joined the clouds as he huffed sadly.

The wolves were not there.

His Master was not there.

His Master was down, down in deep darkness.

Without Odo to bear him.

Weariness fell upon him like a blanket of mail – heavy, cumbersome, and he let his legs buckle. He laid down, sheltered against the rocks near the very top of the mountain. He had scaled the most dangerous point of the high path, and he did not know it. All he knew was that he was tired, and hungry, and miserable.

But then he saw the light pulsing on the path, saw it growing larger and smaller like the shadow of a bouncing ball. His head tipped to the side and he stared at it. It grew faster.

He huffed at it, jutted his head toward it, and it danced towards him. He drew his head back.

He had never seen anything like this. He doubted that even Master Gimli had seen anything like this. It was simply light, light on the ground, that was moving of its own accord, moving towards him in a little circle, then shooting off towards the rest of the glowing path.

Odo propped himself up again, and pushed onto his weary legs. Curiosity won out, and he followed the glow.

For a moment, the cloud grew thicker and colder, and it was harder to see, but then the light spilled onto the ground. Onto a patch of wildflowers.

With a whinny of delight, Odo trotted forwards, and gave the plants a curious sniff. Then, he dug in, eating his fill of the sweet flowers, and the grasses that grew around them. There was more than enough her to fill him, and by the time he finished grazing, night had fallen again. He glanced at the glow of the path, and slowly laid down. It stayed as it was – faint on the path ahead, but stronger around him.

 _Stay, stay, stay…_

Odo closed his eyes.

He did not rest for long. It was not in his nature. Instead, after a few hours of sleep he stood, refreshed, and set off again. So sooner had he thought of water, but the light veered off the path to a cold, clean stream, and he drank until his thirst was sated. Then he followed the light back to the path, and made the final ascent.

He crested the mountain at dawn, as the sun rose over the world and spilt its brilliance everywhere, and painted the mountain with pinks and oranges. For a moment, he stood proudly atop the mountain, but then he carried on. The cloud was beginning to lift, but it was still hard to see further than a few feet away, when he heard it.

The clatter of hooves on rock, of a pony moving fast – hoofbeats that were not his own. He pricked up his ears toward the sound and listened careful. There was also another sound, growing stronger by the moment – wild, catching breaths of panic, of fear.

Someone was running towards him. And they were terrified.

Instinct told him to run, to flee back the way he had come or hide until the danger passed, but stubbornness and curiosity ran stronger in his blood than fear. He let out a cursory whinny, and a startled shriek returned to him. But the hoofbeats drew nearer, drew towards him, and he stepped forward to meet the stranger.

But it was not a stranger.

It was a pony that he knew, and knew well. It was Sven, whose master was Gimli's father. Sven was often stabled beside Odo, and they were cousins. He had the same steel in his bones, the steel of a mountain pony – except it did not look much like it now.

Sven's eyes were open so wide that they were turning red, and he was foaming at the mouth and on the sides. Even when he halted before Odo, he did not stand still, but stamped his feet on the spot, his eyes and ears roaming to find a reason to run.

Odo whickered. _Hail._

Tossing his head, Sven let out a high whinny, and stamped his feet once more. **_Danger! Foes! Flee!_**

Odo snorted, and looked around. _What foes? Where foes?_ He stepped forward and stamped his own foot, once, nudging at Sven's reins. _Where Master?_

With a shudder, Sven pressed his ears back and pulled up his lips to reveal his teeth, whinnying as he did. He tossed his head over his shoulder. **_Orcs. Back. Flee._**

Snorting, Odo stomped again. _Master?_

 ** _Back._**

 _Why?_

 ** _Many, many, fire! Flee._**

Full tack – Sven was wearing full tack, and there were plenty of saddle bags on his side. Odo patted the ground. Dwarves did not eat from the ground, nor did they often drink straight from streams. They drew food from their bags, and at night they sheltered themselves with blankets. Without his bags, Sven's master would be in trouble.

Odo stepped forwards, butting Sven with his head. _Back._

 ** _No!_** Sven reared and let out a shriek of a whinny, his legs flailing like a colt as he tried to pass Odo.

Odo snorted, and tossed his head. _Back._

 ** _No!_**

Huffing in frustration, Odo bit at the saddle bags, but he could not pull them from Odo. They were fastened by dwarves, dwarves with hands, and Sven bucked wildly, leaping from Odo's grasp.

 ** _Flee!_**

And then he careened down the mountain, back the way that Odo had come. Breathing heavily, Odo looked at the road ahead. It was forked – the light glowed down one direction. Sven had come from the other.

Master Gimli was gone. But that did not mean that Odo could not help him.

He huffed, bobbed his head, and set off. Down the unlit path.

The light glowed before him, pulsing on the ground and then shooting away, towards the path, and the tug in his gut urged him to use the other fork. But he held his head high, and began to gallop again. Away from safety, towards Master's father.

If he could have, Odo would have grinned.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that little chapter. It was a lot of fun to write, and to experiment with the way that pony's communicate. Anywho, I hope that it made sense! Please do let me know, and I will see you on Monday for the next chapter :D**


	33. Chapter 33: The Shield

**Yo. Heads up, I only have one chapter today, and it's very minimally edited from last time. Please forgive any typos that have escaped my clutches again.**

 **Chapter Thirty-Three: The Shield**

 _It was cold. So, so cold._

 _The ice was burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. The red-hot metal was clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the abyss, to the icy bottom of the black well. If he did not…_

 _He saw an iron hook dig into the flesh of Nelly's shoulder, and drag her backwards into the arms of a waiting orc. He saw a club smash into Merry's skull and knock him to the ground, and then saw an orc throw his cousin's limp body over its shoulder and cart him away._

 _Frodo saw Pippin leap across a fissure, leap and miss his landing, and break at the bottom of the chasm. Frodo screamed as goblins ripped Pippin's body away. And then he was in a forest, and watching arrow after arrow shoot into Boromir's chest._

 _Falling to his knees, Frodo saw Gandalf falling down, down, down, into an abyss of fire and darkness. He saw a warg's jaw close around Aragorn's neck, and drag him off a cliff. He saw Gimli disappear beneath a crush of armour-clad orcs, and saw only blood escape._

 _Frodo curled his fingers into the ice and dragged himself forward. He had to keep going. He saw Legolas fall from a strange battlement in a foreign place, saw him land on a spear. Had to keep going._

 _He saw Sam fall down a black staircase, and lie motionless on the rocks below with his eyes and neck wide open. He could see Dís, screaming on a blood-soaked bed, her back arching as masked dwarves stabbed black knives into her flesh._

 _Dragging himself to his feet, Frodo tried to run, slipping on the ice. The end of the tunnel was getting closer, but his running was more of a stagger and he was slowing down._

 _Staggering like Bróin, leg hanging open, powerless to stop the orc swing the axe that severed his head, and left it lying on the floor beside Bofin's foot. And the rest of Bofin's corpse._

 _Sobbing, Frodo collapsed into razor sharp snow. He saw Vinca fighting four orcs at once, fighting and losing – and losing her life._

 _Pain shot up his arms._

 _Pearl, lashed to a tree, gagged, half-naked and crying as her father's lifeless body was tossed into a nearby ditch._

 _Frodo wrenched himself back onto his feet._

 _Thorin, struck down before the gates of Erebor, and axe ripping open his ribs._

 _Frodo forced himself to the very edge of the abyss._

 _Bilbo was being strangled, strangled by long, white fingers._

 _Frodo opened his palm._

 _Fíli was lying in Kíli's arms, an arrow in his throat and his eyes unseeing on the bank of a lake outside a mountain that Frodo knew – Frodo was too late, too late, he had failed and –_

A hand seized his shoulder, and Frodo's eyes snapped open to a pair of bright blue eyes.

"Fíli!" he cried, hands grasping at his bedroll as he struggled to sit up. "Fíli!"

"Hush now," said a voice – not Fíli's voice – and Frodo blinked until Gandalf's face swam into view. "It's alright, Frodo my lad."

"Wha's goin' on?" slurred Nelly, an impressive sense of urgency in her voice.

"It is time to leave," said Gandalf evenly, without moving his eyes from Frodo's. "Frodo and I are going outside to make the final decision on the passageway. Master Samwise, would you be so kind as to pack up Frodo's things for him?"

"Of, of course Master Gandalf," stammered poor old Sam, rubbing sleep from his eyes even as he gazed worriedly at Frodo.

Frodo barely had time to blink before Gandalf was bringing him gently to his feet and steering him out of the door. Then, the wizard crouched so that he was eye-level with Frodo and rested his hand on the hobbit's shoulder. Despite himself, Frodo felt just a little safer.

"Are you alright, my lad?" asked Gandalf quietly. "That looked like some dream you are having."

For a moment, Frodo drew in a deep breath to deny it, or make up some standard nightmare – Mahal knew he had enough of them – but he was too tired. Too afraid that his dreams might _mean_ something – and exhausted of carrying it all on his own. Before he could find the words to say, however, Gandalf's brows lowered slightly.

"There is something you keeping to yourself – you called out to Fíli before the gates, yet he was not the only one in danger. Tell me what troubles you, Frodo."

Frodo lowered his eyes, but found that looking up at Gandalf made him feel safer. So, he looked back up into the wizard's eyes. "I had a dream, at the house of Tom Bombadil. But it did not feel like a dream – it felt, well… real. It scared me, Gandalf. I saw things; things I have never seen before, places I did not know – and I, I saw my family…" Frodo took a deep breath. "I saw my family in great danger. At different times, in different places, but some – I saw some of them dying. I was walking into a mountain of fire, but I was not myself, I was Bilbo." Gandalf's eyes were growing darker, more dangerous, and something about it heartened Frodo. "It scared me, but I told myself that it was just a dream, and that I could stop it from becoming anything more."

"But something changed your mind," stated Gandalf, his hand tightening on Frodo's shoulder. "Didn't it?"

Frodo nodded. "I saw the gates of Moria. I'd never even seen a picture before, not from that angle, in that way – and I saw Fíli dead there. With an arrow, an arrow in his throat."

"You are sure of this?" Gandalf frowned, shaking Frodo slightly. "What else did you see?"

In a trembling voice, Frodo rattled off the awful visions. He tried not to embellish them with the new nightmares that had since twisted the original, but it was difficult. Had he seen Bróin _die_ at Tom Bombadil's? He thought he had just been running – and Pippin, he had not seen Pippin fall before, had he?

With every word he spoke, Gandalf's eyes grew darker and darker, and his grip on Frodo grew tighter. "You should have told me this sooner," he said heavily.

Frodo's heart leapt painfully.

"You do not think it's true?" he begged, feeling his knees melt beneath him. "Gandalf-"

"I think you should have told me sooner," Gandalf said firmly, "but 'true' is a relative term. Always remember, Frodo, that even the wise cannot truly see the future – only glimpses and predictions that may or may not come true. With that said, it certainly sounds as though you experienced a vision of some sort – not normal for a hobbit, I am sure, but Tom Bombadil is a strange man, and his house a strange place. It is possible that some power there granted you this foresight. After all – you saw Boromir, before you knew that he was at Rivendell, and you saw Legolas far from home. Yes, I believe it was a vision, my lad. But remember, the future is not like the past. It is malleable, and much of it rests in your hands."

This did not make Frodo feel any better. "My family – my whole family…"

"Are out of your hands," insisted the wizard, but then a small smile flickered across his face. "Well that is not entirely true. Much of your family is still with you. But we shall leave a message in Lothlórien for the others. The Lady will ensure that it reaches them, and then they can deem themselves prepared. For Fíli, we must hope that your call was enough."

Frodo hung his head, reining in his breathing as tears prickled his eyes. "I should have said something before."

"Yes. Yes you should have," Gandalf sighed. "But there are many things we both ought to have done differently. By going yourself, you may well have changed parts of your vision already. Bodin, for example, is still in the Shire, he is perfectly safe."

A soft knocking made Frodo jump half a foot into the air, and he whirled around to see Aragorn poking his head out of the door.

"Are we ready to leave?"

"I do think so," said Gandalf, standing up without a trace of care. Aragorn nodded and ducked back to tell the others, and Frodo grasped Gandalf's sleeve.

"The others, should I tell them?"

Gandalf pursed his lips, and paused for a moment. "I think that you must. But not here, not in so dark a place."

Nodding slightly, Frodo dragged his composure back into place just in time for Sam to wander up and hand him his pack.

"You alright, Frodo?" he asked, eyeing Frodo suspiciously.

He gave a wan smile. "I'm alright, Sam. Nothing but a bad dream."

"If you're sure." Sam shrugged, and shifted his own pack on his shoulders, gazing at the three passageways with a furrowed brow. "I'll be glad when we're out of here. It's too dark. Not natural. I reckon the place's been alone too long."

"You might be right about that," Frodo sighed.

"Which path are we taking?" Merry asked, striding over with Pippin behind him. Frodo's mood sank lower. His youngest cousin was standing very close to Merry, and casting guilty, apprehensive looks at both Gandalf and his sister. He looked like a pup that had been kicked too many times.

"I am going this way," declared Gandalf, striding to the right-hand passage. "I do not like the smell of the middle way, and it is about time we start travelling upwards again. If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

And so on they went. Walking, trudging on through dark passages and dark stairways and dark bridges. All that he had on him – that was what Frodo would give for a light. He felt that the shadows were watching him, watching and waiting.

 _Waiting for what?_

His mind drifted to Bilbo, waiting outside the gates of Moria. To the stricken, furious face that his uncle had worn – to the damage that Frodo had done. Frodo would give all the light in the world to see Bilbo again. To say he was sorry for the pain he had caused, to explain why he had not had a choice. To have Bilbo forgive him, smile at him again. To make sure that Fili had not met the end he had seen.

Frodo shuddered.

"Take care now," Gandalf called over his shoulder. "We are about to enter the mines themselves, the path is narrow and cracked."

The state of the path mattered little to Frodo. He hated the place either way. His leaden feet simply continued to carry him onwards, step by step into the ever-present darkness. Only raw determination to protect his family was driving him on now. That and the grief for the scene at the gates. That was what drove him. Stubbornness and grief.

 _Just like a true son of Durin,_ he thought.

A cold draft tousled his hair, and Frodo turned his jacket collar up to shelter his neck. He could not be bothered to fish out the scarf at the bottom of his pack – he had not thought that he would need it after Caradhras, and it would be more trouble than it was worth to fetch it now. A growl emerged from his stomach, and Frodo groaned. He had missed breakfast.

Then he gasped, and halted with a foot in the air. He could feel the blood draining from his face, and he squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. Their food – almost all of their food – was in the bags carried by Kanna.

Outside.

In their own packs, he doubted they had rations enough to see out the week.

Biting back a curse, Frodo forced his feet onwards. He could skip breakfast. It would not kill him. Not quickly. He tried to remember what foodstuffs he had in his own pack, but it did not make him feel much better. Two apples, a handful of nuts –

 _Stars?_

Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo could see something, glittering off of the side of the path, down in the depths of the dark mines. He kept his eyes on his own feet, afraid that if he looked directly at the light it would vanish. When he blinked, and it remained, he peered over the edge of the path, and his mouth slipped open.

Silver rivers of starlight were running through the rock, with tributaries the breadth of a strand of hair, and pools as wide and long as his hand. They sparkled in the dim light of Gandalf's staff, dancing in delight at relief from the darkness, and Frodo knew exactly what those rivers were, even as their beauty stole his breath.

 _"What if Uncle Bilbo doesn't come back?"_

 _"He will."_

 _"But, but what if he doesn't?"_

 _"He will."_

 _"But what if…" Frodo trailed off as Thorin stuffed his fingers into his eyes, something that Kíli said meant he was 'praying for strength.' Why he would need strength now, Frodo was not sure. But he had never been left alone without Auntie Dís or Kíli or Fili before, and he hadn't been left alone with_ Thorin _overnight, ever. He wished that he had just slept with his cousins and risked the flu that was making its way through Dale, and through the hobbits of Erebor. "What if he doesn't, though?"_

 _With a soft sigh, Thorin crouched down, and placed his hands on Frodo's shoulders. They were so big that his fingers met across Frodo's back. For a moment, Frodo worried that he was in trouble – adults did not like too many what-ifs – but Thorin's voice was very gentle. "Uncle Bilbo will always come back for you, Frodo. Surely you know that?"_

 _What? Of_ course _Frodo knew that – it was not the point! Frodo huffed and stomped his foot, even as tears sprang to his eyes. "You don't understand! Mama and Papa would always come back until the bad dwarf made them not able to! What if someone makes Uncle Bilbo not able to?"_

 _A light dawned in Thorin's eyes, as if things had suddenly started making sense. "That is highly unlikely to happen. Firstly, your Uncle has a brilliant guard. Secondly, Dale is safe, enough. And thirdly, and most importantly, I gave him a secret gift."_

 _Frodo narrowed his eyes. "What sort of gift?"_

 _"A very special shirt," said Thorin, "that can stop even the sharpest of elven blades. It is harder than dragon scales-"_

 _"Still-on ones?"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Harder than still-on dragon scales, and not, not ones like Smaug's that had fallen off?"_

 _Thorin smiled, but it was not the eye-twinkling sort of smile he would give them when they made him laugh, nor the cheeky smirk they got when they narrowly escaped a good telling off. Either of those smiles would have quite upset Frodo, but this one did not._

 _Thorin was smiling sadly, the sort of smile Frodo had seen thrown at Fíli or Kíli when they said something about the bad things that had happened. Frodo had never been on the receiving end of that smile before._

 _"As hard as the still-on scales of the greatest dragon on earth," promised Thorin. "As long as Uncle Bilbo is wearing his shirt – and I know for a fact that he is – nothing can harm him."_

 _For a moment, that made Frodo feel better. Then, he gasped. "But what about his face? The shirt won't cover his face or his legs or help if he drowns or-"_

 _Even as tears fought their way out through Frodo's sentences, Thorin wrapped his arms around him, lifting Frodo clean off of the ground. For a moment, Frodo was startled, and he hiccupped, giving Thorin a chance to speak before Frodo could sob._

 _"If anything happens to your Uncle Bilbo, we will look after you. But nothing will, not tonight. I am sure of it. Come."_

 _Frodo sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve, but he did not bother pointing out that it was useless to tell him to 'come' because if Thorin was carrying him he had no choice anyway. Instead, he just tucked his arms around Thorin's neck, and let himself be taken into the king's own rooms._

 _Frodo had not been in there before, but Sam said it was just like the other rooms in the royal suite. And Frodo had to agree. It was most like Fili's, he supposed, very regal and kingly-looking with gems everywhere and not even one flower, but it was not too posh that it looked bad. It was not like Miss Lobelia's house._

 _Thorin walked straight through the bedroom door and sat down on the bed, pulling open the drawer of the bedside cabinet. For a moment, Frodo wondered if Thorin expected him to let go, but the hug was making him feel better, and the king did not deem to mind Frodo clinging to him like a spider, so Frodo supposed that he did not have to let go. He rubbed at his eyes, while Thorin pulled a small box out of the drawer._

 _It was more hobbitish than Frodo would have expected – it was made of wood, and looked very simple. It was dark wood, like cherry wood, and very plain and worn. It did not really look like it fit in here, in this majestic room. Then Thorin opened the box, and Frodo gave a little gasp._

 _Nestled inside was a shard of captured starlight – it was too pretty to be anything else._

 _Transfixed, Frodo watched Thorin pick up the twinkling light, resting it on his palm so that Frodo could see. It was a necklace – and a little less sparkly now that the light from Thorin's window was not shining right on it. But it was no less beautiful._

 _It looked like a little shield of silver, complete with pretty dwarven patterns and runes so small they must have been engraved by mice, and it seemed to shine all on its own. Even the chain that held it sparkled._

 _"My mother gave me this on my tenth birthday," murmured Thorin. "This is mithril, Frodo. It is strong, and beautiful, and the most precious of all metals and gems to our people. It grants great beauty, and weighs very little, but it is very strong. You could bite down on this tiny shield, or any link of that chain, with the jaw of a wolf and it would not scratch. This is what is protecting your uncle. This one can protect you."_

 _Frodo looked up in surprise. "Me?"_

 _"Yes, you. If you want it." Thorin fixed Frodo with his sharp, blue eyes. "It can remind you that I will always protect our family, and I will always protect you."_

 _As if a spell had been cast, the frightened crawling in Frodo's belly changed to calm, and an odd feeling took its place. He was safe. He had not felt safe without Uncle Bilbo since before they left the Shire. He smiled, and squeezed Thorin as tightly as his little arms would allow._

 _"Thank you!" And then, for the first time, he added, "Uncle Thorin!"_

Frodo's fingers closed around the pendant as he stared down at the unmined mithril. He had worn the shield around his neck ever since that day, though he usually kept it hidden beneath his shirts. No need to draw attention to the most valuable thing he owned, and he hardly wore it for its beauty. Even now, as the familiar metal pressed into his palm, Frodo felt just a fraction safer. And sadder.

Uncle Thorin could not protect him now. He was far beyond the reach of the dwarf king, and drawing further away with every step. Out of all his family, Frodo was surest that Thorin would understand. He would be the first to admit that he would do the same thing in Frodo's place.

But Thorin was far away.

Frodo swallowed, and his hand tightened around the shield until it almost hurt.

"Well, that's an eye opener and no mistake," Sam murmured to him, eyes as round as the moon, and Frodo suddenly noticed the gasps of the others around him.

Their awe, their hope.

Frodo smiled. He was not alone.

He eased his grip on the necklace, let it fall softly against his chest, and allowed himself to breathe into the beauty of Moria.

"It is indeed, Sam."

All too soon, they left the mithril mine behind them and returned to the gloom and the dark, but its light left an imprint in Frodo's mind. A fragile aura of hope was settling around him, and stubbornly weathering every step that he took. They walked on, and on and on and on, until Frodo had lost track of the hours. Or was it the days? It did not seem to matter here. But still, hope clung to him, and he clung back. Just as he had clung to Thorin's neck all those years ago.

The thought made him smile.

The present made itself known with a cold smack to his face – there was another draft here, and though Gandalf's light had not always touched the sides of the passageways, Frodo had the distinct impression that he had just walked out into a wide, open space. Gandalf strode forward and then paused, allowing the others to spill out around him.

"Finally," breathed the wizard, before speaking loud enough for the whole party to hear. "We have reached the habitable layers. I will now risk a little more light."

Like a wave delivering water to the desert, light poured out in all directions, and again Frodo's breath was stolen from him. They stood in a great hall, larger even than the great hall of Erebor, held up by beautiful stone columns larger than anything Frodo could imagine.

His hungry eyes drew in just a fraction before the light faded away again, and Gandalf sighed.

"It is so beautiful, yet so dark," murmured Boromir. "How could folk live here?"

The wizard sighed again. "It wasn't always like this, Master Boromir. Once mirrors and windows drew in light from the sun, and at night the halls were lit by torches and chandeliers more beautiful than you could imagine. You have seen similar sights yourself, in Erebor. Yet anything of beauty, light or value has been taken by orcs. Melted down, most probably."

Frodo felt a lump growing in his throat, as sorrow and anger wrapped around him. He may be a hobbit, but this was his heritage. He was the nephew of the King of Erebor, the heir of Durin. It was his family's homelands that had been stolen again and again, his family's kingdom that lay gutted before him.

Lifeless.

A soft hum met his ears, and he turned to Gimli. He was humming, deep in his throat, with tears glistening in his eyes. As Frodo watched, he began to sing:

 _"The world was young, the mountains green,_

 _No stain yet on the moon was seen._

 _No words were laid on stream or stone_

 _When Durin woke, and walked alone."_

With the reverence the hymn deserved, Frodo joined in softly:

 _"He named the nameless hills and dells;_

 _He drank from yet untasted wells;_

 _He stooped and looked in Mirromere,_

 _And saw a crown of stars appear,"_

He heard Sam and Merry add their voices to the dirge:

 _"As gems upon a silver thread,_

 _Above the shadows of his head."_

Pippin's voice slipped naturally into their harmony:

 _"The world was fair, the mountains tall,_

 _In elder days before the fall_

 _Of mighty kings in Nagothrond_

 _And Gondolin, who now beyond_

 _The Western Seas have passed away:_

 _The world was fair in Durin's Day."_

As Bróin and Nelly too began to sing, every voice seemed to swell to fill the emptiness around them:

 _"A king he was on carven throne_

 _In many-pillared halls of stone_

 _With golden roof and silver floor,_

 _And runes of power upon the door."_

Far above them, Frodo saw the ceiling begin to lighten just a fraction, and his heart and hope grew together.

 _"The light of sun and star and moon_

 _in shining lamps of crystal hewn_

 _undimmed by cloud or shade of night_

 _there shone forever fair and bright."_

In his mind, Frodo could see it – the kingdom as it was, as it should have been – full of life and song and laughter.

 _"There hammer on the anvil smote,_

 _There chisel clove and graver wrote;_

 _There forged was blade and bound was hilt;_

 _The delver mined, the mason built,_

 _There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,_

 _And metal wrought like fishes' mail,_

 _Buckler and corselet, axe and sword,_

 _And shining spears were laid in hoard."_

The light above them grew a little stronger, Frodo realised with a leap of his heart that the ancient windows still let light in, that dawn had come at last!

And with it, their voices began to slow.

 _"Unwearied then were Durin's folk;_

 _Beneath the mountains music woke:_

 _The harper's harped, the minstrels sang,_

 _And at the gates the trumpets rang."_

Bróin's voice faltered, and a sadness seeped into every voice:

 _"The world is grey, the mountains old,_

 _The forge's fire is ashen cold._

 _No harp is wrung, no hammer falls,_

 _The darkness dwells in Durin's halls._

 _A shadow lies upon his tomb_

 _In Moria, in Khazad-dûm_

 _But still the sunken stars appear_

 _In dark and endless Mirromere;_

 _There lies his crown in waters deep,_

 _Till Durin wakes again from sleep."_

Their voices faded away, and the pale light of morning continued to seep in upon them. Frodo did not try to stop the tears that trailed slowly down his cheeks, and he hung his head. A silence fell around them, like the heavy silence of prayer, and for a long while no one spoke.

Enough light had bled in for Frodo to see the entire company, and for Gandalf to douse his staff, when the silence was broken by the last person Frodo would have suspected.

"I am sorry," said Legolas, gazing down the hall with misted eyes. "I am sorry, that this fate befell your people. The darkness here is deep, indeed."

Gimli's eyes widened, but then bowed his head in acknowledgement, and Bróin and the hobbits followed suit. After another pause, Gandalf sighed, gazing over the weary group.

"Let us rest here a while. We are making better time than I would have expected, but we cannot maintain such a pace without rest."

Barely waiting for the others, Frodo slumped down at a nearby pillar and let his bag spill onto the floor beside him. Dust billowed up in heavy clouds, displaced by the hobbit and his baggage, but Frodo did not care. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, to wake up, and to leave. Yet as he settled himself down to rest, Frodo's fingers wrapped around the shield that hung from his neck.

He breathed in, and breathed out, and closed his eyes. Fell straight into a dream.

 _It was cold. So, so cold._

 _The ice was burning his feet with every step, but Frodo had to keep going. The red-hot metal was clenched in his hand, and he had to get it to the abyss, to the icy bottom of the black well. If he did not…_

 _He saw –_

 _Thorin._

 _"This one can protect you," said the king, placing his large hands on Frodo's tiny shoulders. The fire in his palm stopped burning, and instead of a searing ring he felt a cool, metal disc, with patterns as familiar as the back of his hand._

 _He saw Nelly –_

 _Thorin wrapped his arms around him, tightly, placed his hand on the back of Frodo's head. "Hush now. It's just a dream."_

 _He saw Merry –_

 _Bilbo was telling him a story, jostling Frodo on his knees to show just how bumpy it was to ride on a pony._

 _He saw Pippin –_

 _Singing gently, Dís rocked Frodo on her hip and carried him out onto a balcony so that he could see the stars._

 _He saw Boromir –_

 _He was clinging to Kíli's back as the dwarf ran and ran, his hair flying free behind him as laughter spilled through the air._

 _He saw Gandalf –_

 _Fíli spun him around and around, and Frodo was laughing so hard that he thought his lungs might implode._

 _Thorin pressed his head against the hobbit's._

 _A cool disc of metal pressed gently into Frodo's palm._

 _"Your family loves you, Frodo."_

Later, when Frodo woke, he found that the delicate layer of hope that settled around him in the mithril mine had grown stronger. He felt hope stirring into the raw determination in his heart, and he felt it bring strength to his mind. Almost like an armour.

Almost like a shield.

 **So, we're very, very close now to catching up. We should be onto fully new stuff by the end of next week, I imagine, though there are some newer scenes peeking into the next couple of chapters, too. I hope that this rewrite has made things a little easier to follow, and that you do consider the story worth continuing. Please do let me know if you have the chance, it's a little hard to know if what I've done has made a difference to you guys without feedback. That said, I am significantly happier with the writing I've done, so that's something :)**

 **Until next time, take care of yourself, and that's for reading!**


	34. Chapter 34: The Weight of Secrets

**Hello there! Only one for you tonight, I'm afraid, but we're nearly caught up. I hope that you enjoy, and forgive any of my typos.**

 **Chapter Thirty-Four: The Weight of Secrets**

The pain was getting worse. For hours now, Dís had been ignoring it, stubbornly, desperately, but the sensation searing across her lower abdomen was growing stronger with every loping stride of the wolf. Riding Sitka was significantly less bumpy than riding a pony, but she felt every step, every jostle.

She wrapped an arm around herself, pushed inwards as if to squash the pain, but it flared in protest and she let out a groan. Sitka faltered, twisting his head to try and gaze at her with those doleful eyes of his, though he could not turn his face far enough.

"I am alright, my friend," she lied quietly, spurring him onwards. She could not lag behind the group. Not now. All their plans and prayers had been crushed in a rockfall, and if she was fated to worsen things, at least she should keep it to herself.

A shot of fear rang through her, ricocheting off every bone and lodging in her heart as her stomach seized again.

Another baby. She was going to lose another baby.

Beneath the stabbing pains she felt a weak flutter, too fragile to be called a kick, and she swallowed a sob.

The pain grew worse.

"Dís, are you alright?"

She jumped – she had not even noticed Vinca riding up beside her. The girl's eyes were slightly narrowed, but her brows were furrowed in what was obviously concern.

"As a matter of fact," Dís said, a tremble belying her calm voice, "I think I need to relieve myself. Be a good lass and tell Fíli to slow the group, will you? No need to stop, I'll surely catch up."

Vinca hesitated, looking far from convinced, but she nodded and urged her pony towards the front of the group. Dís peeled off into the trees and out of earshot, and stumbled off of Sitka's back before he had even stopped. The wolf whined, twisting around to nuzzle her neck, even as her knees buckled and she sank to the ground. A moan of pain escaped her lips, and Sitka threw back his head.

"No!" she gasped, before he could howl. "No, be quiet Sitka, good boy. Shh now, shh."

Whining, Sitka tossed his head and nudged her, but as she covered her own mouth with her hand he laid down, and crossed his paws over his nose.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths now.

With fumbling hands, she unbuckled her belt, relieving a little of the pain, and tugged her leggings down, feeling frantically for the blood that she knew would –

Not be there?

Before she could so much as frown in confusion, another searing, stabbing pain coursed through her, and she groaned through clenched teeth. It may not just be the baby, this time – Dís was not young, her own life could hang in the balance –

And just like that, it was over.

For a long moment, she did not move. On her knees, legs out at odd angles behind her, breathing deep, shaking breaths.

And then she bowed her head, and let out a small sob of relief.

Her lie to Vinca had been a lie only to herself. She was alright. Her baby was still alive. In the emptiness left by the pain she felt the soft flutter of the child inside her. Her baby was still alive – still kicking.

She pressed a clammy hand over her mouth as Sitka whined, and for a moment, that was all that she could do. Then she took a deep breath, and took stock of where she was. On the ground in the woodland by the Misty Mountains, alone and vulnerable, with her trousers around her ankles and her own excrement behind her. How had it come to this?

 _No time,_ she thought wearily. _No time to ponder that._

Her hands shook as she cleaned herself, redressed and slung her leg over Sitka's back. With a satisfied huff, he turned back the way they had come. Dís wished with all her heart that she could tell Bilbo without crushing him. He was hardly in a place to hear such news, but it was no longer simply the health of her baby at stake. It was her own health, and by extension the health of the company. But telling Bilbo, breaking off another piece of his battered heart…

Tears were masking her vision, and she was drowning. Drowning in relief, and in fear. Relief for her baby, fear for her baby, relief for herself, fear for her sons, for her little ones –

She did not notice that Sitka was growling until he stood still.

Dís blinked, twice, and her blood ran cold. A lone wolf stood in their way, larger than Sitka and poised to attack. She grabbed her sword, the sweat on her fingers making it slip, making her fumble and then –

" _Ai_!" barked a voice, and a flash of silver shot through the air, scraping the nose of the strange wolf, and embedding in the tree behind it. "Out of here, go!"

Whimpering and shaking its snout, the wolf turned and fled into the trees. Gasping, Dís turned to look at Vinca, who was speeding over on her little pony to retrieve her throwing knife.

"Are you alright?" the girl asked quickly, studying Dís even as she examined their surroundings. Her eyes moved so quickly from place to place that they reminded Dís of dragonflies.

A weary smile struggled to Dís' cheeks. "I am, now. My mind was not with me, and I am more grateful than ever that you were. Thank you, uzbadnâtha."

Pausing, Vinca smiled sadly and inclined her head. "The others are moving, but slowly, unless they have paused already."

"Then let us join them," sighed Dís, urging Sitka forward. Now that the strange wolf was gone, he was prancing about like a stud dog, his nose in their air and his gait ridiculously jaunty. It drew the small smile back to Dís, and helped it linger a while.

The group had not quite stopped, and it was easy for Vinca and Dís to return to the back without drawing any concern. But Vinca seemed to hesitate, lingering a little further behind the next rider than was usual. Dís recognised the girl's wish at once, and waited for her to talk.

"I cannot but feel guilty," said Vinca after a moment, glancing over her shoulder not at the woods, but back down the path that they had ridden. "I feel I should have gone with Bofin."

Dís gazed at girl who had been wrapped around her little finger for two decades. "And why do you feel that? You were more than welcome to, yet you protested when Bilbo suggested it?"

Vinca bowed her head for a moment, and then took a deep breath and looked ahead once more. "He must be so afraid. I cannot imagine the pain…" She shuddered.

"He is not alone," Dís reminded her gently. "He has Bifur to comfort him, and Ori and the elves to protect him. He did not ask you to go with him, remember that. And he is on his way to Rivendell – if Lord Elrond does not help him, I would eat my sword."

Despite her words, Dís' stomach lurched at the thought of the poor lad. Her legs ached at even the thought of such pain, and her heart trembled at the thought of such fear. But she was proud, too. Proud of the boy who begged his uncle to continue on, who insisted that Bofur help Bilbo, and try to bring Bróin home.

She did not know if Bofin really understood that their path could no longer take them to his brother, at least not directly. Not unless fate intervened on their behalf, but Dís knew that her kin had never been so lucky. Now, their hope was to aid Bróin and Frodo and the others by drawing away the attention of the enemy – to make their way home and help Thorin fortify Erebor.

Only Gandalf could help Frodo now – if they were lucky, he would steer them safe through Moria, and into that dreaded wood he spoke of with such reverence. Lothlórien. If Gandalf could aid Frodo there, Dís was sure that he would be able to keep their young ones safe.

 _Unless he decides that they are ready. They are not babies._

She ignored the voice in her head with all the strength she had, and turned her attention back to Pervinca.

"Aye," the girl murmured. "I suppose. Still, I am afraid for him."

"We are all afraid," Dís said, before she even knew that she had spoken aloud. Vinca raised her eyebrows a fraction, and Dís shook her head. "He is out of our care, and on his way to care much greater. Bofin will survive this, I am sure of it."

Sighing once more, Vinca turned her gaze on the woodland around them. It was sparse, yet felt rather dark and heavy – much like a lesser version of Mirkwood. "We are the first to venture here for a long time," she said, her gaze lowering to the ground. "But I do not know that we are alone."

The hairs on the back of Dís' neck stood up, and she looked around. "Orcs? More wolves?"

The young hobbit shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure. There are no signs of either, it is just a feeling, but we should take care. It is a feeling akin to being watched."

Dís shuddered lightly. Vinca had a rather uncanny knack for picking up on signs before she knew what they were, and the thought of being watched did not sit well with Dís. Especially not after…

She drew in a deep breath, brought back her concentration, and looked more closely at the young hobbit. Her fingers were flexing, releasing and then holding the reins in a pulsating, almost hypnotic movement. One that Dís could interpret.

"What is on your mind?"

"Why did you not return to Rivendell?"

"My sons are here," said Dís, and though the question seemed innocent, her heart picked up speed. "And my husband."

"Yet you are troubled," said Vinca softly, her eyes on her hands. "You are not yourself. You carry a secret, Dís, and you are distracted. I am afraid for you."

The baby gave a fluttering kick.

"I am sorry for scaring you," said Dís, massaging the back of her neck to avoid holding her stomach. "But I am alright. Weary, and grieving. That is all – there is nothing that would warrant my going back to Rivendell, when I can help my family here. You need not be afraid for me."

"Nothing?" Vinca's eyes moved slowly down to Dís' abdomen, and the back of Dís' neck prickled. The young hobbit held her gaze, and touched her own stomach, then met Dís' eyes with a look of such sympathy and concern that Dís' own eyes threatened to well with tears.

"Nothing that could come before the lives of my breathing kin," she said slowly, even as the baby gave a flutter, and her hand moved irresistibly to feel it. "Nothing that I want to handle outside of Erebor. Yet, nothing that is utterly lost."

"Nothing that Elrond could help with?"

"I will not go back, Pervinca."

Vinca bowed away from the suggestion of the return to Rivendell with a bob of her head. "You should tell Bilbo, Dís. Truly. He needs to know. He deserves to know."

Wondering when the shy little child she had doted on became the grave young woman before her, Dís shook her head. She wished to keep it from Bilbo, from her sons, from all who the news would hurt, but she knew now, more than ever, that her own life was in the balance, and that she was endangering the company with her silence.

Was it selfish, to press on? To stray further from the safety of Rivendell, to spur the help of the best healers in Middle-Earth? Was it selfish that she strove to reach her big brother, to reach her home, her home that had cost so much? If her heart was to be broken, she wanted to be home. Frankly, she wanted Thorin. If she carried the baby to term, it could yet be another nine or ten months, depending on how the terms of hobbit and dwarven pregnancies combined.

She could not fathom the thought of spending that time locked in Rivendell, away from all her kin and severed from her sons and her husband and brother, squandering time that could be used to help her people.

But, to help her people, and her kin, and herself, Dís knew that she must take the advice of one who was not even of age. "For the sake of safety, I will tell him tonight. I will tell them all tonight. If only so that they may know when…"

"If…" said Vinca gently, returning her gaze to the road ahead. "None of our fates are written in stone. Not even those of the smallest of us."

Dís could not help but smile a little, and lifted a finger to knock away the tear in her eye.

Really, she could not believe that Frodo had not asked Pervinca to join him. They were much alike, and though he would not want to take any young cousins with him, Dís could not fathom why he would allow Pippin to accompany him, and yet exclude the strongest tracker and most observant hobbit among them. She was incredibly attentive, Vinca, and her intuition was second to none.

Then, an odd thought took siege of her stomach, with an odd grip of anger, and disbelief.

"You knew, didn't you?"

Vinca glanced at her, looking a little confused. "Knew what?"

"That Frodo and your brother and sister were going to take that damned thing themselves. They asked you to join them, didn't they?"

For half a second, Vinca's eyes widened and her lips parted, her subtle sign of shock, but then a look of careful calm returned. She sighed. "Yes. They asked me to join them."

Dís tried not to raise her voice. "And you did not think to tell us?"

"I did not think they were wrong. I did not think they were going about things the right _way_ , but I did not think them wrong. I told them that I would not sneak off in the night, but nor would I stop them. And I kept my word." Vinca kept her eyes on the road ahead, her hands now tight around the reins. Dís' eyes narrowed.

"There is more than that," she insisted, her anger growing hotter, and creeping into her voice. "You are keeping something from me, Pervinca."

"I wished – I wish – to return to Erebor. If there is to be a war, a siege, I should be there." There was a faint blush creeping up Vinca's neck to her cheeks, an odd and uncommon tell, and it brushed away Dís' confusion with one gentle stroke.

Vinca may not be a soldier, nor the first one Dís would think of in the context of a siege, but the brave young warrior conquering the guard's every trial most certainly would be.

"Ari. So, you are courting then." It was not a question, but Dís was careful not to let condemnation sink into her voice, either.

Vinca dropped her gaze to her fingers. "In, in a manner of speaking, I suppose that you might say that."

Dís understood the girl's trepidation. For an unattached guard in training, courting was strictly forbidden, under threat of expulsion from the guard. To admit that she and Ari were involved would get the young dwarf kicked from the guard, and dishonoured as a coward, or a rake, while Vinca herself would likely be seen as a whore, or a profiteer.

Most captains were willing to turn a blind eye if the soldier performed his duties and the lover stayed out of the way, but to admit formally to a relationship before Ari's graduation would mean trouble even the king would struggle to mend. That Vinca would say so much showed a huge amount of trust in Dís, and it melted most of the anger she felt towards the young girl.

"He is a brave fellow, and a good-hearted one," she said, locking eyes with Vinca. "Yet you should have told us about the plot."

Vinca shook her head a little, though her eyes were full of a sorrow as deep as any Dís had seen. "I am not sorry that I did not. If you were in our place, your love would back up your logic."

Despite herself, Dís understood the truth in Vinca's words, and she felt the last remnants of anger ebb away. "I understand, mizimith, but if we are to survive these times, we must trust to each other, and wherever possible refrain from keeping secrets."

Vinca nodded, and reached out her hand with a soft smile. Dís took it with a sad smile of her own, and for a while they rode together, their fingers entwined.

Without speaking, the women urged their steeds to go faster, to join with the rest of the group more completely. Few others were talking. Though they were, for the most part, unharmed, they were wearied, bloodied, and grief-stricken.

Through an unspoken default, Fíli led them in Gandalf's absence. From his hunched shoulders and lowered brow, Dís knew it was not a position that he much appreciated. Kíli was, of course, beside him, and riding Kanna while Luno recovered from the battle at the doors. Bragi and Ehren flanked them, and they rode closer than usual. Bragi had refused food and drink, and his head was hanging lower by the hour, but for now, he was holding on. Ehren had been silent – something she had never known happen before. Since the battle, she had not heard a single word fall from his lips.

And no matter how close together they rode, Dís could still see the gap between them. The space, where Soren should be.

Immediately behind Ehren and Bragi, rode Bilbo, and Dís felt a swell of pride every time she saw him. Though grief bent his back, he kept his head, and spoke calmly now and again, when the silence was too much to bear. Bofur, who normally took that role, was quieter than usual, and rode alongside Nori.

And then it was Dís, and Vinca.

Just nine of them. Dís and Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli, Ehren and Bragi, Bofur and Nori, and Vinca.

Only nine.

 _Nine companions, to mirror the nine riders._

She shuddered.

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed that chapter. I will see you on Monday for the last couple of re-writes, I expect, and I thank you profusely for reading up tot his point. Please do let me know what you think, and take care :D**


	35. Chapter 35: The Falling

**Yo! I think this is the best I have ever managed to adhere to an update schedule. I hope that you guys enjoy this chapter, and forgive any typos caused by the usual nonsense that it my ability to type.**

 **Chapter Thirty-Five: The Falling**

Pippin wished that he could say he had never been so miserable in his life. Unfortunately, when the thought passed his mind, he was tossed over the shoulder of his memory and dragged back into a time long passed. To dark woods and dark dwarves, and to orcs, and blood and screaming.

He still loathed Mirkwood more than he hated Moria, but it was growing close.

At least in Mirkwood, nothing had been his fault. He had not made anything worse. Even when his little fingers had dug a knife into Fíli's back, it had not been Pippin's fault. But here, he had only made things worse.

He sat alone at watch, as the sunlight seeped through the ancient windows and made the shadows grow.

Why, why, _why_ had he dropped the damned stone? Why could he never just ignore the curiosity that gripped him so tightly? Why could he not be smart like Merry or wise like Gandalf – or at least sensible like Frodo! Why, why, why?

He knew the answer

Because he was a fool.

A stupid, useless, little fool caught up in an adventure that was far too big for him. Nelly was right. He should never have come in the first place. What use was he? What good had he done? What good _could_ he do?

 _Well, I can hold a sword, and hold my own against an orc or two,_ he supposed, but it did not comfort him. The others could claim the same, and could probably fell twice the number of foes as he. Why did he think it would be any use to come?

 _Because I couldn't be left behind,_ he thought miserably. _Because my heart's bigger than my head and it's landed me flat on my back in a ditch. Just like Mama always said it would._

He winced at the thought of his mother – he doubted she would take any of this well when she found out. She would be angry, and disappointed, and above all afraid, and Pippin had never wanted that.

 _But what did you expect?_ a scornful voice thought in his mind. _Nothing. Because you didn't think. Why do you never think, Pippin?_

Pippin sighed, tucking his knees up under his chin. He did not know. All he knew was that it was cold, and that he was far from home, and that he felt utterly alone. Nelly had woken him for his watch, but she had not spoken. Not even when he said, "Sleep well."

Now the others were all asleep. Even Gandalf, though the wizard's eyes were open, and it was always hard to tell. The slow, deep breaths of his companions were the only sounds he could here, and they seemed to sing to him, drawing him back down towards sleep.

No.

He bit down on his tongue until his eyes watered, staring intently around him. He could not sleep on watch. Not now, of all times. He could not miss a thing, not even one little spider scuttling across the floor.

Not that there were any spiders. The hall was painfully, eerily, empty.

Gimli began to snore softly, and Pippin's eyelids grew very heavy. He rocked on the spot, batting sleepiness away as much as he could. He would not fall asleep.

 _Won't, won't, won't…_

The word ran through his head so many times that it became a mantra, a drum beat low and deep in his heart. _Won't, won't, won't,_ he thought, as the beat thudded, _doom, doom, doom._ His toes tapped along in time, and a little of his weariness ebbed away.

 _Won't, won't, won't –_

 _Doom, doom, doom –_

 _Wait._

Pippin froze, his toes less than an inch from the floor, and the mantra ceased.

And the drum continued.

 _Doom, doom, doom._

He could hear it, he could _hear_ it – and a thrill of horror ran through him. Someone, somewhere, was banging on a drum.

And getting closer.

Pippin's mouth felt very dry, and his heartbeat was growing faster as he scrambled to his feet, rubbing his eyes and peering into the darkness. "Wake up!" he cried. Wake up!"

The fellowship jerked awake with gasps and shouts, and Pippin saw a pillar further down the hall appear to sway in gloom.

"What is it?" barked Boromir, his hand tightening around his sword.

"The, the drums," Pippin stammered, looking from Boromir to Gandalf, who went very pale. Then Pippin looked back to the pillar, and let out a cry of horror.

Crawling down the pillar towards them, streaming from the ceiling were hundreds, thousands of –

"Goblins!" cried Legolas from behind him, and Pippin turned to see that they were everywhere coming from everywhere.

How could there be so many?

"Run!" Gandalf ordered, thrusting Pippin's pack at him, and pointing to the far end of the hall with his staff.

Pippin did not need to be told twice. He darted forwards, fixing his eyes on the small doorway at the far end of the hall. If they could just get there, just get there… The others were with him, beside and around him, but there were more goblins before them, slithering down the pillars like spiders, and they would reach the ground before Pippin could get to the door. They would be surrounded.

If it came to a fight, they were doomed.

Choking on air, Pippin froze, looking over his shoulder so quickly that his neck burnt.

 _No –_

"Pippin!" Merry yelled, seizing his collar and dragging him onwards.

Pippin ran, tried not to look back, but he could hardly breathe.

His _sword._

He had left behind his sword. For a moment, he had seen it glinting in the dull light, but in the span of a heartbeat it had disappeared beneath goblin feet, and Pippin could do nothing but run. Run to a door that was getting closer, to a door that was disappearing behind a wall of goblin bodies.

And then the wall was complete, and the door was gone.

Legolas skidded to a halt, and the others behind him, and there was nowhere left to run.

They were surrounded, and Pippin had no sword. He tried to slow his breathing, to remember what to do next, but all he could do was to wind his fingers into Merry's cloak, to stare out at death with eyes so wide that they hurt. He should not have come, he should _never_ have thought himself capable of this. All he had done was make things worse, and now they were surrounded, and he was helpless.

Fíli was going to be so disappointed.

No one else would be surprised.

Merry flung his arm out in front of Pippin, pushing him back into the circle they were forming, and Pippin stifled a sob. Merry was trying to protect him, but Pippin was going to die. They were surrounded, a hundred to one, and he knew that Gandalf could not save all of them. Pippin was the least useful of them all. He would, he should, be the one left for dead.

Pippin did not want to die.

"Merry," he whispered, but he did not know what he wanted to say, or hear. "Merry…"

His voice was taken from him, swallowed by the jeers and the shrieks of the goblins. And of course they we jeering. The orcs were going to win, of course they would win, and Gandalf could not save them all. Pippin was going to die.

 _He was so small, and he felt so small. Too small too help, too small to run, too hurt the baddie instead of his Fíli. And the orcs were going to eat him, they said they were going to eat him, and the bad dwarf had laughed, and said that they could –_

Was that Pippin's fate all along, to be torn apart and eaten by orcs or goblins? Had it simply been delayed, and not averted? He struggled against his fear, but he could feel himself losing, and he squeezed his eyes shut and cringed away, back towards the middle of the group. Dwarven training was screaming at him to find something, anything, to grab a weapon and fight for his life, and he could hear Gimli and Bróin growling, hear the others readying themselves, but he could hardly breathe.

Silence.

It fell as swift and sharp as an axe blow, and Pippin's eyes were shocked open. The goblins were still there, they were still surrounded, but the jeers and shrieks were gone. Instead, their attackers were twitching, wide eyed, until one gave a loud squawk, and noise exploded around them once more.

Shrieking and swarming like bats, they fled, scuttling back up the pillars from which they had come. This could not be good. Pippin's fingers grew tighter around Merry's cloak, and his own heartbeat was as loud as a drum in his ears.

"What is _that?"_ whispered Nelly, and Pippin turned to look.

Fear stole the air from his lungs. The doorway they had entered the night before was glowing, glowing red as though a ravenous fire was raging behind it, drawing nearer. But in the midst of the glow was darkness, an unnatural, solid darkness, and Pippin stumbled backwards.

"Ai!" wailed Legolas, his voice ringing with a despair that stole Pippin's breath. "A balrog! A balrog has come!"

"Run!" Gandalf barked, grabbing Pippin's shoulder and shoving him forward, "All of you, run!"

Pippin had never run so fast in his life. His bag bounced against his back and his arms pumped at his sides as he raced for the other door – the door onwards, the door that was getting closer, closer, closer –

And he was at the head, ahead of the group – which meant that he had overtaken his sister.

The realisation tripped his heart, and Pippin glanced over his shoulder, but Nelly was right behind him. _She_ did not look scared. Her mouth was pressed into a straight line, her eyebrows were furrowed, and determination burnt in her eyes.

Behind her, far behind, flames were spilling from the door and into the hall, and a roar like that of a dragon shook the ground beneath them. It was a sound deep and grinding and growling, a sound that pierced your ears and churned your stomach, and shot an arrow of terror deep into your chest. A sound louder than any firework, more alien than the beast in the water, more chilling than the call of a warg –

It was a sound that had Pippin looking back forwards towards escape, and a sound that released a speed the young hobbit had not known that he possessed. It spurred him on, and he flew through the doorway and saw the path just drop –

He flung out his arms in a desperate attempt to stop, but Nelly crashed into him with a curse, and he was thrown forwards.

Over the edge.

A scream tore from him, and fingernails scratched deep at the skin on the back of his neck, and then two hands tightened around his collar and Pippin jerked to a stop.

Began to hang.

He did not know if he was choking on fear or his own coat collar as he gasped for breath that would not come, and he glanced down, into an abyss so dark that he forgot the sight of the sun. Above him, he could hear cries and yells and footsteps, and the hands that were holding him shook.

His coat was slipping.

"Please!" he gasped, trying to crane his neck to look up, but it loosened his collar and he began to fall out of his coat –

He screamed, and the hands on the coat wrenched upwards, dragging him back up onto the path. Arms wrapped around him, held him close, and Pippin clutched at them, trying to draw breath in whatever ragged gasps he could muster.

"Are you alright?" Frodo begged, holding Pippin even tighter. "Pippin?"

Pippin blinked at Frodo, unable to comprehend how his cousin had caught him, or what had just happened, or –

A pair of much larger, stronger arms hoisted him up off of the floor, and the next thing Pippin knew he was sat on Boromir's hip like a child.

"There is no time, we must run!" the man insisted, dragging Frodo onto his feet and pushing him onwards. "Gandalf-"

"Go on!" ordered the wizard, and with a start Pippin realised that the wizard was still at the door, while the rest of the fellowship had spilled out along the path. "I'll be right with you! Don't fall, now!"

Good advice, sound advice, but it soon grew hard to follow. The thin, stone walkways were cracked and crumbling in many places, and Pippin's heart lurched over every crack. Yet Boromir did not hesitate – he leapt over each one with ease, and barely let them slow him down.

Pippin wondered if he should demand to be put down, to pull his own weight, but he was too afraid. Instead, he stared over Boromir's shoulder and watched Gandalf catch up with them, leaning on his staff and breathing heavily. The moment that the wizard reached Gimli at the back, there was a far away roar and an almighty crash, and the mountain began to shake.

"What was that?" yelped Bróin, as Pippin cried out in dismay, but Gandalf herded them onwards.

"Don't stop!" he bellowed. "It's that way, to the left, Nelly, the left! I have sealed the door, but the enemy are breaking through! Quickly!"

There was another loud boom, and the mountain seemed to wrench out of place. Cracks and groans of crumbling stone were the only warning they got before rocks began to fall from above, parts of old walkways and tunnels and ceilings, rocks as big as trolls, and Pippin tightened his grip on Boromir's cloak.

 _Why did we come this way? Why, why, why…_

A chunk of rock the size of a wolf crashed down onto their path barely a foot in front of Gandalf, striking straight through the stone. Without hesitation, Gandalf and Legolas jumped across, followed swiftly by Bróin and Nelly.

"Jump!" Gandalf demanded when the others hesitated, ushering Bróin and Nelly on.

Gimli leant backwards and then made the jump, but to Pippin's horror, his feet missed, and he began to fall back. Quick as death, Legolas lunged forward and grabbed Gimli's beard.

The dwarf gave a bellow of protest, but then he was safe, and Pippin let out a sigh of relief.

For half a moment.

"Hold on!" Boromir yelled, and Pippin's heart seized.

The man launched them both into the air, and Pippin cried out, but as quickly as they leapt, they landed, and then Boromir put Pippin down on his own two feet. Gandalf grabbed his shoulder and pushed him onwards, but Pippin hesitated, his eyes on the others.

"Merry!" cried Boromir, holding out his arms. "I will catch you!"

Pippin's heart beat so fast that it stoppered his throat as Merry screwed up his eyes, leant back, and then took a running leap across the chasm –

And the rock fell away beneath his feet –

And he was snatched from the air by Boromir, and put down at Pippin's side. Immediately, Merry grabbed Pippin's hand, and Pippin could have sobbed.

Scarce a moment after Merry had landed, Aragorn grabbed Sam as if he was a child, and tossed him across the chasm. Again, Boromir caught the hobbit, and placed him safe on the ground, and then Frodo had been flung across, and Pippin and Merry backed away further to give them more room.

And then the stone beneath Aragorn's feet began to tilt. Pippin cried out, but there was no fear in the stumbling ranger's eyes. Instead, he set his jaw, took a running leap, and was grabbed by Boromir as the old section fell away.

Then they were running again. Pippin's lungs were protesting, and his hope was failing, but then his eyes fell on a small bridge, not twenty feet away.

"The bridge of Khazad-dum!" called Gandalf, his voice rasping with the effort. "The way out lies just beyond!"

With a spur of courage, Pippin out on speed. They might make it yet…

A hideous roar and flare of heat thundered from behind and chased away his courage, but as he turned to look Merry cried out in a strangled voice, "Don't look back, Pippin!"

Curiosity sufficiently dampened, Pippin kept his eyes straight ahead, and focused on running, and not falling. Nelly and Bróin were first on the bridge, but they stood aside for Gandalf.

"I'll take the rear," he insisted gruffly, pushing the pair onto the bridge, and ushering the rest of the fellowship on after them. "Swords are no use here, this is a foe beyond any of you. Go, quickly!"

The moment his foot touched the bridge, a thrill of terror shuddered through Pippin. It was wide enough only for single file, and there were no rails or curbs – nothing to stop him falling to his death if he stumbled. Every ounce of concentration that he could muster was spent on his feet, his legs. Nimble steps, focused steps, steps that would not falter or fall.

He could feel heat growing behind him, but it did not look back. Looking back could throw him off, make him stumble, he had to concentrate.

When his palms finally hit the wall of the mountain he could have sobbed with relief, and he stumbled after Merry, Nelly and Bróin, towards the upward passage, towards daylight –

"Gandalf!"

Pippin turned at Frodo's scream, and his own mouth fell open.

Gandalf stood alone on the bridge, holding his staff and his sword. And facing him was a monster more terrible than any Pippin had ever dreamt of. Now he understood why Legolas had been so afraid. Now, he knew what a Balrog was.

It was a creature of fire and of shadow, without substance, yet whole and fully formed, with a whip of flame. It had to be twenty feet tall, and it had reached the bridge, and its gaping jaw froze Pippin to the bone.

Gandalf did not flinch. "You cannot pass."

At the base of the bridge, Aragorn and Boromir held their swords hesitantly, as if contemplating charging, but something stayed them. Pippin looked back to the Balrog, and he saw thousands of silent orcs flanking it, waiting, and drawing bows.

The Balrog raised the whip, cracked it down through the air with a sound like thunder, and Frodo cried out, darting forwards. Immediately, Boromir forsook his sword, seizing the hobbit and pinning him to his chest. Pippin did not need pinning. He could not move.

"You cannot pass!" repeated Gandalf. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass!"

The Balrog did not answer. Pippin could not imagine words coming from that awful mouth, could not fathom that such a beast _could_ form words at all. But instead, it seemed to grow, which was infinitely worse, stretching out its shadows until it seemed to fill the hall beyond the bridge. Pippin pressed himself against the stone wall, feeling it cold and sharp on his back, and he could not tear his eyes away. He could not run. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Merry, Bróin and Nelly peering back around the corner in horror, but they too, seemed frozen.

Only Frodo fought to return to Gandalf, struggling wordlessly in Boromir's arms.

With a noise like shrieking steel, a sword of flame was raised high in the air and the Balrog lurched onto the bridge, but Gandalf roared in a voice louder than any Pippin had ever heard.

"You shall not pass!"

His staff smote down upon the bridge, and at once it spilt like butter sliced with a hot knife. The Balrog gave a hideous cry and fell into the abyss with the stone, its flames sinking into shadow. Pippin's knees went weak, and he sagged against the stone.

A whip of fire snapped around Gandalf's legs.

Brought him down onto his stomach, dragged him towards the abyss.

The wizard's fingers clutched at the rock of the bridge, but they were all that held him.

Pippin held his breath, waiting for Gandalf to move, to spring back up and run after them.

But he did not.

"Fly, you fools!" he cried.

Let go.

And then he was gone.

" _No!"_ Frodo screamed, his voice throwing out a grief so strong that Pippin was surprised the mountain did not shake. "No, Gandalf, _Gandalf!"_

Pippin could not scream. He could not move. His eyes were fixed on the broken bridge, on the space where Gandalf should be. Gandalf was a wizard, he would come back, surely he would come back, jump up and yell at them, and hurry them out of the door.

An arrow broke behind his ear and Pippin flinched, but he could not move away, he had to wait, they had to wait! Gandalf would be back in a moment, he had to be.

"Pippin, come on!" sobbed Merry, grabbing Pippin's elbow and tearing him away from the wall.

Stumbling, his feet carried him after Merry, but Pippin strained to look over his shoulder. Just wait, just a moment. Merry would see, Frodo would see, it was alright, Gandalf could not die.

Could he?

Pippin caught sight of Legolas, of a face so white and grief-stricken, and he knew at once that he was wrong.

Gandalf _could_ die.

Behind him, Frodo was still screaming, still carried by Boromir, and Pippin had to look away.

Gandalf…

With a cry, he and Merry burst out into the sunlight on the slopes of the mountain, and as the air slapped Pippin's face, so did the realisation that what he had seen was real. That Gandalf had fallen.

That Gandalf, the greatest wizard in all of Middle-Earth, was dead.

 **There we go, not much changed, but we're so close now that the new stuff is being sketched out and written. I hope that you enjoyed the chapter, I'll see you shortly!**


	36. Chapter 36: Azanulbizar

**Hello! I hope that you enjoy this chapter! It's a quick one, because I must get to bed and I don't think rushing the second half of what was going to be here is a good idea, however I hope to get it up before Monday, and it will be an entirely new spin on a scene, so I hope that it's worth it. Anyways, enjoy this chapter, and please forgive my typos.**

 **Chapter Thirty-Six: Azanulbizar**

Aragorn had never known grief like it. It was overwhelmed him, a wave of pain and shock that crashed into his very soul, and poured down his throat into his lungs, again and again and again, without letting him come up to breathe. It was all he could do to stop tears, to stop sobbing, to stay strong,

Now, more than ever, others needed him to be strong.

They had spilled out onto the mountain, fallen where they stood. One by one, like toy soldiers knocked over by a petulant child, their sobs joining the startling birdsong, and their tears making damp the dry earth. Even Nelly was sobbing, her arms wrapped around Pippin. Overhead, the sun was shining, glorious, scornful, daring to show its face when their greatest hope, and Aragorn's greatest friend, had been stolen by fire and darkness.

He loathed himself for running. Loathed Anduril, that it had not tasted the blood of even one orc in Moria. It had simply hung useless in his hand, severing only the air, watching as Gandalf fell. Yet he had no choice – Gandalf said fly, and they had learnt at the gate the steep price that hesitance could demand. The quest had to take priority.

It will not happen again, Bróin had said. And he was right.

If only Glorfindel had been with them, he would have known what to do – and he _should_ have been with them, he was part of the original fellowship, he should have been there. Why could it not have been Glorfindel who danced through the doorway with them, and not poor Bofin? Glorfindel would have made it, he would have known how to destroy the Balrog –

Or would he?

Aragorn stumbled, and sheathed his sword. His shoulders sagged. For all his love and admiration for the lord of Rivendell, Aragorn no longer saw him through the wonder-blind eyes of a child. The Balrog had almost bettered the Glorfindel once, and it was a fight he spoke of with dark eyes and a hushed voice.

Once, only once, Aragorn had enthused that they should fight a Balrog together one day, and Glorfindel's face had grown pale at once.

"No, child," he had said. "A Balrog is a foe beyond us both, and I paid dearly for my last victory. I pray that you will never see such a devil, let alone face it in a fight. Even the Istari would struggle against such a foe."

He was right. Glorfindel was always right.

"Come," Aragorn called, his throat croaking in protest. His body wanted him to cry, not to speak, but he swallowed the tears and cleared his throat. "Come now, we cannot linger. We can grieve when we are safe."

Boromir's head snapped up and he opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he sagged, and nodded glumly, reaching out for Frodo. He was the only hobbit still on his feet, but he was swaying, back and forth like a willow branch in a slow breeze. He flinched at Boromir's touch, and turned wounded eyes on Aragorn. They seemed to bore into his very soul, begging why, how, what do we do?

Aragorn straightened, held out his hand, and offered what little a smile he could scrape together.

"Come," he said again, and the hobbit stumbled towards him. He squeezed Frodo's shoulder, and noticed that the hobbit was clutching the end of a silver chain so tightly his fingers had lost all colour. Strange. He was sure that the ring's chain had been gold.

Slowly, the others clambered to their feet, some clutching each other, and others standing alone. But they gathered together, and Aragorn took the first step towards Lothlórien.

Then, Gimli spoke.

"Before we go, there is something I must see," he said, his voice gruff and bitter with grief. Beneath it, there was a subtle vulnerability that carried Aragorn back to their first meeting. Then, too, they had been weary and afraid, and running for their lives. "If this journey is to end in death, I would look in the Mirromere ere I fall."

All eyes flickered to Aragorn and Frodo, though whom they were asking for permission, Aragorn was not sure. He glanced up the Dimril Dale – he knew it was not far to the lake, though he had not made the short trek himself before. The sun was beginning its descent, but noon was not long since passed. They had an hour, perhaps, to spare. And, even as another wave of grief crashed down upon him, in his heart Aragorn knew that the sight might do his companions some good. He had no place to refuse.

Gimli led the way, trudging up the path with a cloud of silence around him and Bróin at his side, and one by one the hobbits trailed behind. For a moment, Aragorn simply swayed on the spot. He had no desire to see the Mirrormere. He felt no desire to explore, or see the sight, no matter how great it may be. Curiosity was not a thing that survived such a grief.

But then Pippin glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide with sorrow, and Aragorn found that his feet moved of their own volition. Pippin's mouth moved weakly into what once might have been a smile, and Aragorn nodded, increasing his stride to catch the end of the group. He heard Legolas and Boromir behind him, and they hiked up to a grove of trees half-hidden by the mountain's stone.

For a moment, they trudged down the dirt track, but within a minute or two, the trees parted, and Aragorn's breath was stolen from his lungs.

Before him stood a large pillar of stone, one that he needed no explanation for save legend – it was the place where Durin had stood.

And beyond it shone the Mirromere, an arrowhead of brilliant blue set beneath the grey stone. Its shortest side lay before them, perhaps quarter mile wide, and it stretched out for perhaps a mile before the two sides tapered to a point beneath the sheer mountain wall. It sparkled so brightly that it seemed to give off its own light, and the hue was bluer than any flower Aragorn had ever seen. Nothing floated on its surface, no weed or lily or broken twig, and its banks were as clean as clear glass.

Never had he seen such beauty in so vast a body of water. All that could compare were the ponds of Rivendell, and with a pang he was reminded of Ael o Alassë. The same sense of sorrowful memory hummed around Mirromere, and the deep blue reminded him of Gandalf's eyes. Of holding a million memories, a light that seemed sure to last forever.

His feet drew him nearer, and it seemed that he was not the only one to feel so. The entire fellowship flanked out along the bank, and as one they peered down. Aragorn gasped sharply.

He could see the stars.

He looked up quickly, but the sky was blue and clear, save for a few wisps of white cloud. There was not a star in sight. But when he returned his gaze to the lake, he saw them reflected in the water, as though they were a crown above his head. They twinkled up at him, and a tiny shiver of hope shot into his heart. This was what Durin had seen, come to life before his eyes.

The stars, hidden as they were by the scornful sun, were still alight.

Hope, as smothered as it was by Gandalf's death, was struggling on.

"Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi," whispered Bróin, his voice breaking.

Gimli let out a strangled laugh, but nodded, wrapping his arm over Bróin's. "The sun is still shining, the moon glows on."

Aragorn took a deep breath of the cool air, and the flutter of hope in his heart grew a little stronger.

"I am glad," Legolas said in a tight voice, "that your people's legacy here has not been utterly swallowed by the darkness. That some places remain unmarred."

"It is not unmarred," murmured Frodo, tears chasing each other down his cheeks. "This is where Frerin died."

Boromir frowned heavily. "Who is Frerin?"

Frodo's gaze remained fixed on the lake, and he tugged at the chain around his neck. His hand was going white. "He was Dís and Thorin's brother. It was in the Battle of Azanulbizar. He was just a child."

"No older than Pippin or Bodin," added Bróin mournfully.

Legolas looked horrified, and Aragorn was reminded just how little news came to Mirkwood of life outside its borders. He knew that Legolas had rarely travelled, and that his usual journeys took him no further than the Misty Mountains one way, or Erebor in the other. Legolas had seen battle and blood and death, it was true, but Aragorn wondered how much he knew of the struggles faced when the fighting died down.

Boromir made an odd noise of disgust, and shook his head. "It is a sign of evil times indeed when those so young are sent to battle. The soldiers of Gondor grow younger with every passing year. Soon we will not be able to afford to turn away any boy over eleven summers, yet it hurts my heart to see it so. Curse the orcs for fouling this place, and curse Mordor for forcing our hand now."

They turned away, and they walked on.

Aragorn would remember little of their journey, save the weight of his grief, and the immense fear of attack. Every step, every hour seemed to linger into the next, and time passed in a wink that lasted a lifetime. Years of training and experience drove his feet, scripted his calls of encouragement and direction to the others, but true sharpness of mind did not return to him until the water of Nimrodel lapped at his ankles.

It shook just enough of his shock and weariness from his mind, and he raised his eyes to check the sky. He sighed, his hand automatically going to his sword's hilt. Already, red streaks were soaking the clouds, and darkness was rolling in from the east.

"We must hurry," he said, ushering they stumbling Sam through the water. "Night is almost upon us, we must reach the trees ere it falls. Come, Merry, Pippin."

They sped into a run, and though they often faltered and staggered, they hit the outer trees of Lórien as the twilight stars appeared. Darkness rolled in quicker beneath the trees, and the hairs on the back of Aragorn's neck stood up. Somehow, he did not think that the sweet waters of Nimrodel and the whispered threat of the witch of the woods would keep orcs from Lothlórien on this night. He looked up – shelter might be found if they climbed the trees. It would be a primitive mockery of the ways of the Galadhrim, but it had saved him before, and saved Gimli and Pippin too.

But even as he opened his mouth to say so, a figure emerged from the gloom before him. A figure that he knew, at once.

"Haldir," he cried in relief, rushing forward even as the others leapt back.

"Welcome," said the elf, putting a hand over his heart and bowing his head. "We have been wondering if your party should pass through our lands. Which one of you is Bilbo Baggins?"

Shock struck Aragorn in the face so hard that for a moment he did not understand what was being said. Then, he realised that word had come from Rivendell. That they were expecting Bilbo. And Gandalf.

Taking a deep breath, Frodo stepped forward. "I am Frodo Baggins, nephew of Bilbo. I am here in his place, with his burden."

Eyes widening, Haldir turned swiftly to stare at Aragorn.

"The story is long, and full of grief," Aragorn murmured. "How much do you know of our errand?"

"Enough to know not to speak of such maters outside the safety of the kingdom's walls," Haldir said sharply, and he stared intently at the group. "Yet it was my Lord and Lady's will that your company be given leave to pass." His gaze rested rather suspiciously on Gimli and, to a lesser extent, Bróin. "You are lucky, Master Dwarves, that the lady had knowledge that Durin's Folk would travel among this Fellowship. We have not brought dwarves into Caras Galadhon since the dark days."

Bróin and Gimli glared at the elf, and opened their mouths to protest or retort, but Nelly took Bróin's hand and Frodo looked beseechingly at Gimli, and the dwarves fell silent.

A ladder of silver rope spooled down from the tree behind Haldir, and the elf stood aside, gesturing to it. "After you, son of Arathorn."

He would have rather wait until he knew that the others were safe, but given that he had been invited, Aragorn took the ladder and climbed as quickly as he could. A pair of strange, silent elves greeted him at the top, and though he recognised neither of them, he thought they bore a rather strong resemblance to Haldir. He had met the guard on his first and only trip to the land of the Galadhrim, though he had no wish to dwell on the memories of that visit now. It would bring no comfort.

Now, he stood upon a small platform, wide and rail-less, spread around the tree and sheltered by a thin roof. It was sparse, no more than a guard-post, but he was grateful for the shelter. For a way to hide from the orcs.

This sentiment did not seem to be shared by Sam or Pippin when they came out onto the platform, and saw their height.

"Trees are all right and good for playing in," Sam whispered to the youngest hobbit. "But not for sleeping in, like a bird in a tree. What if we fall off the perch?"

"Don't worry Sam." Aragorn smiled wearily. "We will not let you fall."

When he himself ascended, Haldir introduced the strangers as his brothers, who spoke very little of the Common Tongue. Aragorn, Legolas and Frodo shared a few niceties in Sindarin, but no one was in the mood for idle talk.

"Tonight, you will rest here. Tomorrow, I will take you into the city," said Haldir. "But take care not to speak so loudly. You are not resting in safety yet."

Too tired and grief-worn for anything else, they laid down on the platform, with the hobbits huddling close to the tree. Just when he thought that his heart could not grow heavier, Aragorn saw Pippin, ever their little sleeper, staring out at the night with wide eyes, pinching his own arms when his eyelids flickered.

Aragorn began to doze, but in what felt like minutes he was woken by the tramp of orc feet and goblin jeers below. He reached for his sword, but Haldir gave a silent shake of the head, and signalled for the fellowship to remain with his brothers. Aragorn settled back down reluctantly as Haldir disappeared down the tree.

And only minutes later, silence stifled all noise from below.

Pippin went on pinching himself, until Merry pulled his hand away.

Aragorn closed his eyes. Succumbed to sleep.

He woke to a grief that allowed him to breathe, and to weak sunlight filtering through the trees. Haldir was waking them all, and as Aragorn came fully to awareness, the elf urged them to follow him down the ladder once more.

"What of the orcs?" asked Bróin urgently.

"They are destroyed," Haldir said. "None will leave this woodland. Come."

They followed the elf down the ladder and onto a hidden path, one that could not be seen by the naked eye of man or hobbit or dwarf. Yet the elves could see it, and they led the company true. For hours they wound around trees and over rocks and across little tributaries, until at last they reached the wonder of Caras Galadhon.

Once, Aragorn had been taken breathless by the beauty of the place, and of the buildings that wove around the trees, but today his appreciation was numbed by grief. He drew a little joy from Sam's mumbles of awe and Frodo's wide eyes, but that was as much as his heart would allow.

"Where're we going now?" Pippin asked glumly, and Aragorn glanced at him. There were dark rings under the hobbits eyes, and he stood with sagged shoulders sand a lowered head. Before Aragorn could reply, Haldir spoke.

"To meet the Lord Celeborn, and the Lady Galadriel."

 **So, I will have to leave it there for today. However, I will endeavour to have the second part of the chapter up tomorrow/Sunday if I can at all. I just want to make sure it's as perfect as I can get it! Until then, thank you for reading, and take care!**


	37. Chapter 37: The Lady of the Light

**Happy Monday everyone! I'm sorry I didn't get this up over the weekend, but I was working and also working on making this chapter perfect. I'm not sure whether I'd call it perfect, but it starts with the trickiest POV character EVER (for me) so I'm proud of what I've got! I hope that you enjoy it, and that I haven't left in any embarrassing typos. Again.**

 **Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Lady of the Light**

The party before her were as weary as any she had ever seen. Their shoulders slumped and their heads hung low, and in their eyes was the grief and fatigue and hopelessness that she had seen in her own kin when they crossed the Helcaraxë. It was the look that came from a journey when so many were lost, and the cost was so high, and hope seemed utterly futile.

And there was someone missing.

Dread curling towards her like a dark smoke, Galadriel cast her mind out to the mountains, and reached for Mithrandir, but she could not feel him. Where her mind should have caught his thought, she felt only emptiness, and a void as deep and dark as Moria itself. Fear grew within her, and she reached further, deeper and darker into the mines, further across the lands of this world until her thought was stretched thin, and reached the sea, until she reached the fires of Doom. But he was nowhere.

Loss struck her in the gut, hollowed her, and for a moment, she could not breathe.

"Tell me," said Celeborn, his voice calling her back to her hall. "Where is Gandalf? For he was said to be among your company, and I much desire to speak with him."

The faces of the group opened like books before her, but she did not need to look to know how they would read.

"Gandalf the Grey did not cross the borders of this land," she breathed, and Celeborn looked at her sharply. "I can no longer see him from afar. He has fallen into shadow…"

She felt Celeborn throw out his own thought, felt him reach for what she knew he would not find. Her sorrow grew.

"He was taken by shadow and flame," said Legolas, and Galadriel read the truth in his eyes. "A Balrog of Morgoth."

 _A Balrog?_ Celeborn's grief-stricken voice reached her mind, and hers alone. His despair wrapped around her heart, as strong as her own grief. _Alas! Alas, for such evil fate._

She nodded her agreement, and then closed her eyes. She drew in a long breath, and then cast out her mind once more. This time, though, she was not searching for Mithrandir.

There were few souls on earth who could speak thus, who could communicate through thought over great distance. Though it mimicked spoken conversation in that one could only hear the other's intended thoughts, it was significantly more difficult. It required both power and a strength of mind that no mortal could possess, and few elves could attain. It was this rare ability that the Palantíri had been emulating when they were created – they formed a vessel, or a tool, by which Men or lesser elves might converse with another by though, if their own strength and will was sure.

For the very wise and powerful, however, no tool was needed to converse with each other. If both parties possessed the power, they could exchange thoughts as though they were they in each other's presence. It was far easier in close proximity, but with great effort one could cast their mind over the vastness of the world, and find such a companion anywhere that they may be.

If, of course, they were still in the world.

Galadriel knew that there was another who had been due to partake in this company. Another with the ability to communicate thus. So when she cast out her mind and searched the world, she looked not for Gandalf, but for Glorfindel.

It took her but a fraction of a heartbeat to find him – he was on the other side of the Misty Mountains, and moving fast. Towards Rivendell.

 _Hail,_ she thought, and at once he opened his mind to the connection. The moment he did, she saw through his eyes – the horse he rode, the path ahead – and he saw through hers. And he saw the company before her.

 _My lady,_ he said, relief and hope ringing clear in his tone. _They are safe!_

 _Yes._

 _Thank the Valar!_ Glorfindel thought. _But where is Gandalf? I cannot reach his thought._

Her heart ached, and Galadriel recalled the words of Legolas for Glorfindel, who cursed in all the tongues of elves and men. His grief was so strong that it struck her physically, and she knew it must be almost as deep as her own.

But pausing to grieve in times of such peril often invited in further death.

 _Why are you returning to Rivendell?_ She pressed.

With no small amount of urgency, Glorfindel told her of the conspiracy – of Frodo's taking the Ring to spare his uncle, and of the desperate ride from Rivendell to try and intercept him. He recounted the battle at the gates of Moria, and of the beast that had emerged from the deep, and the destruction it wrought upon the doors. He recalled the death of Soren, a bodyguard, and of the dwarf's brother subsequently slaying the monster in the water, and he explained that the other casualty had been a dwarf little older than a child, whose legs had been crushed by the fallen stone.

 _His brother is Bróin, who stands before you know_. _Bofin lives, and I have great hope that he will endure, but his legs could not be saved, and I wish to get him to Rivendell. He is severely injured and needs to heal. His uncle, Bifur, rides with me, as does Ori Dragonsbane, and Erestor._

For a moment, Glorfindel paused. Then, he spoke again.

 _By fate or ill fortune, the ring is out of my hands, but for Bofin I can yet be of use_. _Tell Frodo of the plight of his family – Bilbo and the others aim for the High Pass; their goal is to get back to their homeland. But if you send out a troop to greet them, you could deliver the ring back into their custody, and Bilbo Baggins can complete the task which he was assigned. If not, he will return to Erebor, and the doom will fall to Frodo._

Looking at the young hobbit before her, Galadriel shook her head a fraction. _I do not think that is a choice for either of us to make._

She felt Glorfindel's weariness in her own bones. _No. It is not. Yet it grieves me that those so young might go – alas for Gandalf! – were I in your position, my Lady, I would at least seek to give them the option of passing the Ring back to its appointed bearer._

 _Perhaps,_ agreed Galadriel. _We shall see._

 _I must go. I must check on Bofin. We shall speak soon, my Lady._

 _My lord._

The connection between them vanished, and Galadriel released the breath she had taken. Less than a minute had passed in the normal counting of time – a common trait of conversation that moved at the speed of thought – and to learn so much in so little time unsteadied her. She could feel her knees trembling, and her heart racing.

Celeborn touched the back of her hand with his own, ever her lifeline to the present, and she sent him her silent gratitude. Then, she drew in another breath, and stared at the one they called Frodo. He could not hold her gaze longer than a moment, and his guilt was written all over his face.

"This is not the fellowship that was decided at the Council of Elrond," she said quietly, and the entire company averted their eyes.

 _Will they endure, then?_ thought Celeborn. _If they acted on pride or vanity, they might fall._

 _Indeed,_ she thought, her eyes on Frodo.

She breathed in once more, and looked into the young hobbit's mind. At such a close distance, it was no more difficult than speaking.

She was not surprised to find the heart of the ringbearer in turmoil. It was written over his face, after all. Even an orc could read that. Already, the Ring was beginning to wind its way around his heart, but its grip was surprisingly weak. Looking closer, she saw that he had not yet worn the ring, and she saw the resilience he nurtured within him, a strength that she had but rarely seen before. She knew many among her own kin who lacked such strength, but thought themselves very strong indeed.

Yet Frodo did not think himself strong, nor did he have any misconceptions about his own abilities or path. His sole motivation in taking the ring was love – for his uncle and his aunt, for Fíli and Kíli, for his kingdom. She saw that he would take it alone if he could, to spare those beside him, and she knew that if he did, he would pass the glory to his companions. His guilt was not for doing wrong by his uncle, but for causing Bilbo pain. Looking into Frodo's heart eased her own. She did not doubt that his motivations would serve him well.

Still, she sent an idea into his mind – a thought that he might return to Erebor, safe and sound, without guilt or shame, and be among those he loved. An offer to leave the burden to someone else.

An offer that his thought refused as soon as it heard it.

Galadriel smiled a little, and looked to his companions one by one. One by one she examined them, and one by one, they turned their eyes from hers. Yet, as she examined them she offered the same escape that she showed Frodo. Reunion with loved ones, safety and security without guilt or shame, a secret escape from the quest they had undertaken. And even as she examined them, every single member of the fellowship refused.

She saw Aragorn's quiet pride, and his resolve to banish the darkness, and his love for her granddaughter. His concern that he had not taken the right path, and his determination to see it through anyway. His fear of falling into the same doom as his forefathers.

Beside Aragorn stood Legolas, and Galadriel was immediately struck by the raw grief of the young elf who had never before strayed so far from home. Too often were the elves tempted by isolationism, the desire to keep their own people safe and separate from the dangers of the world, and Thranduil was among the worst for it. But no longer were the eyes of Legolas made blind to the outside. For the first time he was beginning to truly understand how strong the perils and griefs of the world were outside of the Woodland Realm. Yet she saw no wish to return home and hide until the fight was over. Instead, she saw a fierce resolve to help – to accompany his friends to the end of the earth, if that was what it took to play his part.

In Gimli, she saw the fire of his forebears, a blazing desire to protect his kin, and drive the weapons of the enemy out of reach of innocent souls. And she saw his fear that he had done wrong by his king in accompanying Frodo, and his terror of losing his young hobbits to the darkness. That, she had expected. What she had not expected was his humility. It was as strong as his pride – a balance that she had seen but rarely before. He was confident in himself, and in his abilities, but aware of his place in the world, and humble before those of greater strength. Humble before her – an elf he had been raised to think of as a witch. An elf he thought of only with awe.

Her heart strengthened further, Galadriel turned to Merry, whose thoughts of the quest were similar to Gimli's– so similar that she felt she could see the dwarves' influence over the halfling. He, too, was driven by the need to protect his family – Pippin in particular – and he too harboured regret for the reaction of Bilbo. But he did not feel guilt or uncertainty as Gimli did. He was sure as stone that they had moved correctly. And he was deathly afraid, but resolved to follow Frodo to the bitterest of ends.

In Samwise Gamgee, she saw the same loyalty and drive, and the same fear, but beneath it all she saw a quiet awe – disbelief that it was he who stood there, that he would play any part in so grand an event. She could see him wondering if Bofur had been right in insisting that he was just as special and important as the other dwobbits of Erebor.

Of the fellowship, Pippin's mind was the wildest – a storm of pain and grief and guilt, a guilt so strong that it threatened to drown him. He saw his value as least of them all, and it was eroding his soul like waves on a rock. Sorrow bled into the lady's heart, but she saw much in Pippin to give her hope. Love for his friends and his family, a desire to help in any way that he could. And a seed of courage, buried deep within his heart.

His sister's mind was very different. For Nelly, it was her fear that was buried – locked deep within her chest and kept under careful guard. Grief swam freely through her, but she had done nothing to slow its path. She was letting it run its course as it must, and Galadriel could see that the girl was strengthening her self from it. She could see the meticulous way that Nelly controlled her emotions, and ever returned to logic and self-preservation. The influence of the dwarf Nori was clear – he had taught her to look after herself, and always to lock fear and envy away, but to let grief and anger out as soon as maybe, so that they would not escape later.

But Nelly's fears were more than she would acknowledge, and Galadriel could see them churning deep within. Nelly knew that she was strong and able, and was proud of her abilities as a warrior and an acrobat, but she was not as sure of her worth as she made out. She was not as certain that their quest was achievable as she had the others believe. She was worried that her body would betray her, and surrender to hardships that hobbits were not built to face. And she was terrified of watching her brother and cousins die around her, and frightened of failing. Of bringing shame and grief upon her family. And her fears were growing stronger in their confinement, and it would not surprise Galadriel if they were soon to burst free.

In Boromir, Galadriel saw pride, and resolve to do what was right by his people above all else. She saw his fierce love for his homeland, his desire to spare it its sufferings, and his struggle to hold onto faith in his father. His fight to balance his belief in Denethor with his loathing for the Lord's treatment of his brother, Faramir. There was turmoil in Boromir, a great deal of it, and of them all he was the quickest to avert his eyes. The Lady narrowed her gaze. So far, this man proved the most likely to strays. But she could still see a fierce love for his companions, and above all the hobbits, and a heart that clung to its strength.

And then she turned to Bróin.

And Bróin did not avert his eyes. He stared back at her, fighting the urge to look away. Even as she read his hopes and fears and secrets, he stared back, and refused to be ashamed, or to bow his head.

He was who he was. He knew _what_ he was – where he was strong, where he was weak – he knew it all, and his thoughts screamed as much to her.

She could never embarrass him with his guilt, or his deepest desires, or his secrets, because they were not hers to look at. They were his, and his alone, and he did not care what she thought of them. He thought her beautiful beyond belief, and probably powerful beyond his reckoning, but he insisted that his heart was no threat towards her, and therefore it was not hers to inspect. Its contents were not hers to judge.

He was weary and grief laden and closer to crying by the second, but he was Bróin, and of that he was proud.

And Galadriel smiled fully. _Your heart does you great justice, son of Bombur._

His eyes widened and he drew in a sharp breath, but he thought better of speaking, and simply nodded once. She looked away, both with her eyes and her mind.

Then, she spoke aloud at last. "This is not the fellowship that was agreed upon in Rivendell. As we speak, Bilbo Baggins rides for the High Pass. If it is the wish of your company, we can lead him here, and he can continue the quest in your stead."

"How do you know?" blurted Frodo desperately, taking a step forward.

Galadriel smiled wryly. "I know many things, Frodo Baggins. He rides with the Lady Dís, and with the Princes of Erebor."

"Both of them?" Frodo said, causing Sam to tug on his friend's sleeve, lest he anger the lady. "Fíli and Kíli, are they _both_ with him."

She inclined her head. "To the extent of my knowledge, yes. I have received word from Glorfindel of Rivendell. Bróin, son of Bombur –"

The young dwarf's head snapped up, and in an instant his face lost its colour.

"– your brother is alive. He is severely injured, but he lives, and is on the way to receive treatment in Rivendell."

Gasps of relief and delighted rippled through the fellowship, and Bróin's knees gave way. He crashed towards the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut, but Nelly caught him with a laugh, putting a hand on his cheek.

"I told you, Bróin, I _told_ you! He's alright!"

Galadriel's heart grew heavy as she prepared to say what was next. She had no right to keep the death of their kinsman from them, but it grieved her to have to say it.

But Celeborn spoke for her. "There is something else you need know, and I fear it will grieve you. Soren, son of Ragan, fell in the battle at the gates."

The smiles died on their faces, and the fellowship froze where they stood.

"Soren?" Nelly whispered. "Soren is – Soren is dead?"

Celeborn bowed his head. "I am afraid so."

Tears sprang to the eyes of the hobbits and the dwarves, and Legolas and the men hung their heads. Galadriel bowed her own head.

After a long moment, Celeborn spoke again. "Do you still wish to proceed with your quest? There is no shame in staying behind, if any of you wish it." Galadriel noted that his eyes lingered on Pippin and Boromir.

"I must go on," Frodo murmured after a long moment. His voice shook, and tears fell from his eyes, but his resolve was strong. "I – I knew that it would not be an easy path…"

"None of us wish it," mumbled Pippin, sniffing, and shuffling awkwardly on his feet. Everyone looked to him, and he seemed to cow beneath their gazes. But he raised his eyes to meet Galadriel's, and despite his fear, he held her gaze. "We'll go with Frodo, as long as he needs us."

Galadriel nodded slowly. "Very well. I deem that this is the fellowship as fate has decreed it to be. Each of you will play a part in what is to come – but understand that your quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little, and you will fall." Her eyes lingered on Boromir, and her mind to the desires she had seen in his heart. He looked away, his face losing its colour. "To the ruin of all. Yet hope remains, while company is true. Come now and rest, for you are weary. Tonight, you will sleep safely here."

 _Not in a tree, I hope_ , muttered Sam in his mind, and Galadriel could not help but laugh. Even Celeborn gave a slight smile, cracking the mask of calm that hid his grief from all, save his wife.

"Not up a tree, Master Gamgee," she agreed, and the hobbit turned the shade of a ripe tomato. "Tonight, you may rest by the roots of our trees, if great heights are not to your liking. Haldir will show you the way."

* * *

Blinded by tears and relief and grief, Bróin half stumbled his way down ladders and stairs to a large, open air chamber that looked like it had been grown from living tree roots. There the fellowship sat together, their stunned silence bleeding into mumbled words that kept their sleep at bay. No one wanted to close their eyes just yet.

They did not talk of their grief for Gandalf, or for Soren. It was too raw, too fresh, a pain that had to be endured before it could be spoken of. So instead they talked softly about days that had passed, and of the wonder of the lord and lady of the Galadhrim. But as they talked, Frodo grew quieter and quieter, until at last he spoke.

"There is something I have to say to you all… Only I'm… not quite sure how to say it."

Bróin frowned slightly as he looked at his cousin. Frodo was clutching tightly at the chain around his neck, something he only did when he was very nervous.

"Well, perhaps start at the beginning," supplied Merry helpfully.

Frodo took a deep breath, and stared at the ground beneath his feet. "I did not mean to tell you at all. I thought – well, that it was not worth telling. But when we were in Moria I, I told Gandalf, and he said that you ought to hear, when we were out of the darkness."

It felt as though someone had pulled a plug at the bottom of Bróin's gut at the sound of Gandalf's name. He still could barely believe it, knew he was still reeling –

"That doesn't sound like the beginning," said Merry, his voice hollow.

Frodo closed his eyes. "I had a dream, at the house of Tom Bombadil. A nightmare. I thought it little of it at the time, but in it I saw… places. Places I've never seen before. And when we reached the Gates, I realised that they were _real_ places."

"A vision?" Aragorn raised his eyebrows and leant inwards, and Bróin noticed Legolas' ears twitch. "I did not know that hobbits were capable of such foresight."

Frodo shook his head, and he opened his eyes. "We are not, most of the time. Gandalf – We thought it could be magic of Master Bombadil's, or of his house. But what I saw… you should all know." His eyes lost a little of their focus, as if he was seeing what he spoke of right in front of him. "First, I saw a long bridge, leading deep into a mountain of fire, but then I was in a forest, where Nell – I saw orcs drive an iron hook through your shoulder, drag you backwards…"

The image struck Bróin as clearly as though he had dreamt it himself, and he flinched, looking quickly at Nelly as Pippin gasped beside them. But Nelly looked very calm, and put a hand on his knee, and spoke in a voice as soft as her mother's. "Go on, Frodo."

"I saw Merry and Pippin thrown over orcs' shoulders and carted away like a sack of potatoes," he said, and then his eyes rested on Boromir. "I saw you, shot, arrow to the chest."

Boromir's hand went straight to his heart, and his eyes darkened. "Where? Where was I?"

"In the forest, the same forest. Those three things, they happened in the same forest," Frodo replied, his brow furrowing in concentration. "But then it changed. The next thing I saw… I saw Gandalf, fall… I saw what happened on the bridge, I saw it _months_ ago." His voice broke and he looked away, trying to steady his breathing as the others stared at him in horror. "There was fire, fire and darkness and I could not understand why, but now… And the dream went on."

"Who else?" demanded Bróin, his voice catching painfully. He cleared his throat. "What else did you see?"

Frodo took another deep breath, and pulled at his chain. "Aragorn, wrestling a warg off a cliff I don't know, disappearing, and Gimli crushed by an army of orcs on a battlefield that could be anywhere. I saw Legolas, falling off a battlement I still cannot name."

Aragorn's lips were pursed, tightly, and Gimli's face was the colour of ash, but Legolas was impassive, unreadable, save for the fear flickering in his eyes.

"Sam," Frodo added in a sound that was almost a moan. Bróin could hear the cracks in his cousin's voice, now. "Fell, fell down hundreds of black stairs, Thorin was fighting outside the gates, our gates, Erebor, but he fell, too. And Dís… Dís…"

"What about her?" asked Nelly, in a tone that told Bróin she had guessed the answer already.

Frodo's fingers clenched so tightly that his hands went white. "She was lying on a bed, screaming. Surrounded by strangers, in masks. She was covered in blood."

"That is why you said it would kill her," Gimli said hoarsely, squeezing Sam's leg shoulder so hard that the hobbit flinched.

Frodo nodded, tears finally escaping his eyes. They sank down his cheeks like rain on a windowpane, but his voice clung to its strength. "Bróin, you were running, but your leg… it was… hanging, open, the back of your leg had been ripped away and an orc was coming, and I could not see where."

It was Nelly's turn to wince, and all Bróin could do was offer Frodo a white-lipped smile. He could feel his hands trembling.

"Then I saw the gates of Moria," Frodo said, and Bróin went very still. "And I saw Fíli… With an arrow in his throat."

"Which is why you called to him," murmured Merry, his realisation dawning in his eyes. But then it turned to horror, and he looked quickly away.

And then Bróin understood why. Frodo had called to Fíli, Soren had knocked him out of the way –

 _Soren._

Bróin quickly looked at the ground, rocking ever so slightly as he tried to control his breathing, and his tears. He was old enough for this, he could do this –

"Did… did I kill him?" Frodo rasped in horror, and Gimli answered at once.

"No. No, lad. If Soren – if it was the arrows that brought him down, that was not your doing. He knew what his duties were, and he always went beyond them, the stupid fool…" Gimli's voice was choked by grief, and for a moment, nobody could speak.

"What else, Frodo?" pressed Aragorn gently.

Frodo closed his eyes. "Pearl, she was bound to a tree and watching Paladin – there were orcs, kicking him into a ditch, he was-" he cut off abruptly, wincing as Pippin whispered hoarsely.

"What? He was what, Frodo?"

"Hush Pip," whispered Nelly, her eyes narrowed intently. "Was there more?"

 _No, there can't be more,_ thought Bróin, but Frodo nodded. Bróin saw a small trickle of blood seep down the hobbit's hand as the chain he held cut into his skin.

"I saw Vinca, fighting four orcs, she was losing – and Bofin was bleeding and Bodin was holding his sword, he was trying to cover him, but he didn't know what to do and – then I saw… Bilbo, Bilbo in a mountain of fire and the ring was in his hand, and I – I woke."

"But, but it's not real!" Pippin's frightened voice broke out into the silence, and he looked wildly between Frodo and Aragorn and Legolas. "That, that cannot be real, Frodo!"

"Gandalf, Gandalf said that it was foresight, but that the future is always changeable." Frodo turned his teary gaze to his hands. "And Fíli – the Lady said that Fíli is alive. But Soren, Soren is not, and Gandalf still fell…"

Unable to stop the sob that rose up his throat, Bróin turned his face away from the others. He did not want them to see him cry, even now. Even when he would not judge a single tear or sob from them.

Nelly's arm wove around him and held him close, but her voice was stronger than ever when she spoke. "Right."

The word rang around them like the toll of a great iron bell, reverberating through them with a strength that no one had foreseen. Bróin peered at her, and saw that her eyes were blazing.

"Right then," she said firmly. "Let's see what we have to do. Did you not hear what Gandalf said? The future is changeable, and we will change it. It's my belief that even elven foresight can only show but a possible course?" She looked intently at Aragorn, who nodded slowly.

"That is true," he said. "Lord Elrond often sees two conflicting futures, and ever says it would be unwise to dwell on foresight."

Nelly nodded. "Exactly. Bofin's not exactly going to be in fighting shape anytime soon, and Bodin's in the _Shire,_ he's perfectly safe. Mama and Papa won't be letting him near swords any time soon. We know that we are not bound to this future. We can _use_ this dream, twist it to our advantage. Even if that means Bróin has to wear reverse shin-guards, and I put a breastplate over my shoulders."

A snort of a laugh broke from Bróin half against his will, and he let himself relax into Nelly's embrace.

"As for the others – we can only afford to worry about ourselves. If we worry about them our own feet will falter and the world can't afford that. So, we just have to keep going, and Frodo, you'll have to warn us when things become familiar."

"Moreover," said Boromir quietly, "we must take heart. Gandalf's death was not in vain – I am sure of it. He said to fly, and fly we must. This is our quest now, and together, we will see it done. Such tidings seem bleak indeed, but we can twist them to our advantage. From what little I have heard of Bombadil, it may not have been a malicious magic that triggered even these sights."

Taking a deep breath, Bróin nodded to himself. Yes, they would change it. They would change everything.

They had to.

 **There we go! Only the revelation scene about the baby and the sneak peak of Bofin and we're in whole new turf guys! I'm terrified, to be frank, but also very excited, so I hope you are to. Thank you so much for reading, and until next time take care :D**


	38. Chapter 38: Dance of Winds and Willows

**Yo! I hope you guys enjoy this chapter – please forgive any typos/mistakes that I make. As a note, I've had issues with the formatting of the song in this chapter, solely once uploading it to FF, so I've put a '/' between the verses to make it clear where they are :D**

 **Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Dance of Winds and Willows**

The fire burnt brighter than usual in the black of the night, sending sparks souring into the space where stars should be. But there were no stars. Only blankets of thick, black, cloud, smothering the faraway light. Winter's chill was biting down against them, with an uncommonly sharp wind, but the fire was warm, and a stag was turning on the spit above it. Enough to feed them.

Fili prayed that it had not been a mistake, to advocate for the flames. Though it may draw some attention, they were still somewhat sheltered among the trees, and the fire would make a good defence should wolves or orcs attack. Or Black Riders, if that hell was not fully behind them. Moreover, after the hell of the last few days, some hot food would do them a world of good.

Especially Bragi. Fili had not been able to tempt him into more than a mouthful of bread since Moria, and he knew that the smell of roast venison would be a little harder to resist. Bragi needed to eat. He was as pale as his hair, save for the dark rings beneath his glazed eyes.

A lonely little ghost – those were the words Kíli had used when they had first spied Bragi in the marketplace as children. That was what he looked like now. An anguished, lonely little ghost. If they did not get him to eat soon, the weight would begin to fall away. Hollow his cheeks. Make him look more dead than alive.

Because Soren –

The very name sent a spasm of pain through Fíli's heart. He knew why Bragi was not eating. His own grief was gnawing at his soul, but he knew that it was but a fraction of what Bragi must feel. After all, Fíli had known the death of a brother. He had felt that grief, felt the world wrenched from beneath him and agony encompass his very soul. He knew that the anguish Bragi felt would be crippling, and he knew that he would carry the weight of it for the rest of his life. For it never faded, that burden. You just grew stronger, until you could carry it with relative ease.

Or your brother is delivered back to your side, against all odds.

He shuddered, adjusting his cloak around his shoulders to try and disguise it as a shiver of cold. There would be no miracle reunion for Bragi and Soren. He had seen Soren die, seen Soren dead. He was buried. Gone. They were never going to see him again.

Tears stung at Fili's eyes, and he fought with his grief for the ability to breathe. It was beginning to sink in now.

They were never going to see Soren again.

It was not fair. He was so young – younger even than Kíli. Soren was still five years from turning one hundred.

He would never even come of age.

Fili's tears escaped his eyes and began to trail down his cheeks, and he stared at the fire, allowing the smoke to sting him too. His head dropped, slowly, onto his hands, and he drove his elbows into his knees. It was not fair.

Not fair, not fair, not _fair_.

And _he_ was the one that Soren had died to protect. He knew it, as strongly as he knew his own name. Frodo had cried out to him, Soren had knocked him out of the way.

Soren had not got up.

And Fíli had.

An arm wove around his back, and Fíli looked up, a little surprised to see that it was Bragi beside him. Meeting his eyes, Bragi's mouth curled up into a weak shadow of a smile. Without words, Fíli shifted so that he could return the embrace. In moments, Kíli sank down beside them, snuggling into Fíli's side, and holding Bragi's hand. Ehren sat on the other side of Bragi, resting his head on the albino's shoulder. He was just as pale as Bragi, and come to think of it, Fili had not seen Ehren eat much either. But for Ehren, there was something more disturbing, more obvious.

Fíli had not heard Ehren speak since Moria. Not one word.

As if feeling Fíli's eyes on him, Ehren looked over and twisted his lips into a half-smile. Closed his eyes. Fíli sighed, and let his head rest against Bragi's.

They were a bundle, a bundle of grief and weariness. A bundle with just a little hope left. Instinct prompted Fíli to say something, but there was not much to say. The night before last, Soren had been alive. In their bundle with them. Now he was gone.

Gone.

It was not fair.

It was Bilbo who took charge of the cooking, and Vinca who placed strips of hot meat into bowls and pressed them into their cold hands. Of the whole, battered group, the two hobbits doing the best at following their usual patterns. Once, perhaps, Fíli would have mistaken it for apathy, but he had lived among Shire Folk long enough to know how their culture dealt with crises.

They hid their grief with soft, casual words, and spoke of horrors they had faced the way that others would speak of a stroll in the park. They carried on, meticulously, in whatever routine they could find, and if they did not have one they would make one. They would keep very calm, and carry on with life until enough time passed for them to shape their grief into speech.

They were good folk to have around in a crisis.

It was not that the others were useless, but Bilbo shook his head with a faint smile when Dís offered to help with cooking, and Vinca eased Bofur's bedroll from his hands to set it out herself.

Sitting so still before the fire, Bofur could have been mistaken for a sleeper, but there was a tightness to his face that betrayed his fear. Nori sat beside him, so close that their shoulders were pressed together, but neither dwarf spoke. They just stared into the fire, hardly moving at all. Dís, too, seem transfixed by the flames, but her expression was one of intense concentration.

It was only when Vinca had coaxed Bragi into finishing his dinner, and confirmed that everyone else bore empty bowls, that any form of conversation began.

And it was started by Dís.

"There is something that I must confess," she said quietly, a strange hesitance in her tone. She sounded quiet, vulnerable, almost like a child, and it churned Fili's stomach. He shot a worried glance at Kíli, received one in turn, and then together they looked back to their mother.

Bilbo frowned, his head tilting slightly to the side, and he spoke with a practised calm. "Oh? What is it?"

Dís looked away from him, pursing her lips for a moment before she spoke again. Vinca stood, smooth and graceful as a shadow, and walked to Dís' side, where she sat down once more. She took the dwarf's hand, and they shared a glance. Then Vinca looked down at the ground, and Dis spoke. "I – I have held my tongue until now because I thought it best. You must understand – there is so much to fear and so much to do, and I could not add another burden to you, to any of you. Not when it's so likely to end… to end in…" Her voice broke and her gaze fluttered down, and Fíli's heart skipped a beat. Vinca squeezed Dís' hand, and Sitka nuzzled at her neck. Dí _s_ sighed, winding her fingers through Vinca's, and running her other hand through Sitka's soft fur. "I am afraid, though, that it is now at a stage where it will end, and bring danger down upon you all when it does, and that I…"

"Amad, what are you talking about?" asked Kíli desperately, looking from Bilbo to their mother and back again, but Bilbo was as still as stone. His mouth had fallen open slightly, and horror was growing in his eyes with every second that passed.

Fíli detangled himself from Kíli and Bragi and leant forward – this was not some small secret. Something was very, very wrong.

"I am also afraid," Dís whispered, her eyes trained on the dirt beneath her, "that Frodo… that it may have been a factor in his taking the ring."

"What?" cried Bilbo, his voice hoarse. His fingers were clenching and unclenching, and Fíli noticed Bofur put a hand on the hobbit's shoulder.

"He knew," mourned Dís. "He guessed, he asked, I had to tell him. He guessed back at Bag End, he noticed – I made him swear not to speak of it, but he has been worried ever since, and he… Well."

"Amad," Fíli insisted, the pressure far too intense for him to hold his tongue. "What is it? Tell us!"

She flinched as if he had screamed at her, and closed her eyes. That scared him more than anything – he had never, ever seen his mother look so vulnerable, so afraid. She always hid such things from him, no matter how old he got.

"Tell them, Dís," Vinca said softly. Fili looked at her sharply. Why would Vinca know before him, before Dís' first born son? He thought he was –

"I am with child."

Fíli felt as though his limbs had frozen, and then melted far too quickly. All his strength seemed to have flowed away, and he slumped where he was sitting. He was too stunned to feel anything at all.

Bilbo, on the other hand, stared at her, with a face of shock and fear and fury. "You're – Why are you here?" Before she could speak, he sprang to his feet, tugging at his hair. "Why aren't you in Rivendell, why on earth did you come with us? By the Valar, Dís, what were you thinking?"

"Frodo," she choked, but from her wince Fíli knew that part of her agreed with Bilbo. "I had to put Frodo above a life that may never be-"

"It was a long shot, finding Frodo, and you knew it!" Bilbo's voice rose to a yell, and he turned as red as his coat. "And don't you, don't you say it will never be! Don't you say that, Dís. Don't say that."

"Keep your voice down!" Nori hissed, and Bilbo turned on him. Before the hobbit could speak, Nori spoke again. "Unless you _want_ all the goblins in the damn mountains to find us?"

"I'll keep quiet," Bilbo growled viciously, "but you keep out of it!"

Nori held up his hands and shrugged, and Vinca frowned heavily. "Uncle Bilbo-"

"It's true, though," Dis interrupted, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Fíli could only remember one occasion where she looked so openly distressed – losing Kíli to the goblins. It sent a shiver down his spine, and he seized his brother's hand. "Bilbo, none have survived."

Fíli glanced at his brother, but Kíli was frozen. His eyes were round as the moon, and his face as pale as Bragi's, but he was barely moving to breathe.

"No one expected Kíli to survive!" retorted Bilbo. "No one, not you or Thorin or even Daisy Took! But he did! That's it – we're turning around."

"What?" Dís gasped, and Vinca looked up sharply.

Fíli found himself looking from her to Bilbo as if they were playing a game of tennis.

"No, yes, that's exactly what we're going to do," said Bilbo, nodding almost frantically. "So help me, we are going back to Rivendell!"

"We cannot go back!" she cried.

"Oh yes we can! Elrond's the best healer in Middle Earth, and there's a chance there, Dís, a chance for the baby to survive-"

"Yet we'd forsake our country and our people in the process! You knew when you married into this family, you knew that we must put the needs of our people above the needs of ourselves-"

"We're going back to Rivendell!"

"No, we are not!"

Kíli was beginning to recoil, cringing ever so slightly into Fíli's side. Fíli wished that the ground would swallow him whole. Never, in his whole life, had he seen his parents argue like this. With anguished snarls and red, pained faces – he could not stand it.

"Stop it!" Kíli yelped suddenly, cutting over Bilbo's reply. "Stop it, both of you!"

They paused, each staring at Kíli, each breathing heavily.

"Just – just stop. Please. I can't take it."

Bilbo opened his mouth furiously as if to roar, but Kíli flinched and the sound died on the hobbit's lips. Instead of yells, tears broke free, and he pointed a shaking hand at Dís. "She," he whispered. "She..."

"I know," Kíli begged. "I know, but let her speak, please! And Amad-" he turned his eyes to his mother, his hurt so obvious and deep that Fíli had to look away. "You should have told us."

"I thought I was doing what was right," she whispered brokenly.

Bilbo gave a shaky sob, placing a hand over his mouth, and Bofur stood up, enveloping him in a hug. arm around the hobbit. Bilbo clung to Bofur as though he were drowning, and stared over the dwarf's shoulder at his wife. "You… you should have known better.

Dís hung her head, a tear travelling down the crook of her nose. "There was enough grief to go around with."

"Which makes any hope more important," Bilbo whispered fiercely. "Yes, our luck has never held, yes, perhaps it never will, but Dís – this could be the child that makes it. If we just went back to Rivendell, Elrond could help, I know it."

"He's right, Amad," said Fíli quietly. "If there is a chance, we should take it."

She met his eyes with such sorrow and guilt that he almost cried himself. "I cannot, dushtêl. We cannot go back. The way is ahead, you know it, I know it. So do you, Bilbo. We must press on…" she closed her eyes. "We must get to Erebor. And I will not send my boys on alone."

Bragi cleared his throat and began to speak, but his hollow voice was cut off before he could finish the word "I".

"You are one of my boys, Bragi," she replied sharply, and a flicker of a smile twitched at Bragi's lips.

"I can't go back to Rivendell," sighed Bofur. "'s much as I want to. Bofin'd never…never talk to me again."

"And I want to go _home,"_ Dís insisted, tears spilling down her cheeks more freely than ever before. "Whatever happens with – with the baby – I want to go home. I want to be with my brother, with my friends – I want… I just want to go home."

And then she began to sob.

Fíli stood up faster than he thought himself capable of and hurried across to sit beside his mother, wrapping his arms around her. She pressed her face against his shoulder, and he swallowed, holding her as close as he could. She was shaking.

Fíli glanced at Vinca, and knew at once why she knew and he did not. If it was something Frodo noticed, there was no way their most observant hobbit would have missed it – especially given that she, too, was a woman. But why had he not seen? Why had Frodo noticed before Fili?

A glance at Bilbo told him that the hobbit was wondering the same thing. Bilbo's face was no longer red, but pale as death, and he was trembling like a kitten in the snow. It looked as though his knees were swaying beneath him.

"Right," Bilbo choked, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Right. We go on then. But Dís, the moment anything changes…"

"I will tell you," she swore, pushing out of Fíli's embrace, but grasping his arms tightly. "I know the risks, and I promise to do what I can to minimise them. That is why I'm telling you now, I do not want to endanger you. If the time comes, if everything happens at once, you must leave me-"

"No," Bilbo said, going even paler, though anything else he had to say was interrupted by the others.

"Don't be a fool!" said Vinca sharply..

"We wouldn't," Bragi promised.

"Couldn't," Fíli said, wincing at the thought. "We couldn't!"

"Not going to happen!" Kíli shook his head fiercely.

"But we will stick together," Bilbo said, breathing deeply. "We will stick together, and we will all pull through. Alright? That goes for all of you. No more secrets. Even for the 'greater good.' They've got us nowhere so far."

A murmur of assent ran through them, and Dís nodded. As a hush fell, Fíli found that he was able to breathe again, and figure out what on earth he thought of all this. A little anger – or perhaps, more accurately irritation – rose at the thought of his mother putting the child at risk, putting _herself_ at risk, when she could have stayed, or even returned to Rivendell, but he knew that he would probably have done the same, if it was him. He could see in her eyes that she thought this baby already carried a death sentence, but Fíli was not convinced. He could not help but feel a little flicker of hope. Perhaps, maybe, this time the child would make it.

"It's alright, Amad," he murmured. "We'll look after you now. Look after you both."

"We'll get you home," Kíli promised, rising on legs that swayed and stumbling over to first kiss his mother's cheek, and then swallow Bilbo into a tight hug, nudging Bofur out of the way. Then, he took Bilbo's hand and gently guided him back towards Dís. Vinca stood, offering space beside Dís to Bilbo, who sat down. Kíli sank down beside Bilbo, and Vinca beside him.

Shaking his head, Bilbo took Dís' hand, and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you."

"I love you, too," she whispered.

"But I think you've been an idiot," Bilbo said bluntly. "Especially considering how smart you normally are. Bragi, lad, pass me my pipe, would you? It's in the pack beside you."

With that, any argument was over. They all seemed to know that they would be continuing on with their plan, that they would be taking extra care and leaving all disputes in the past. Nothing to the point was said. No one brought up returning to Rivendell again.

"Well," croaked Ehren, and Fíli turned quickly. His friend's voice was hoarse and strained from disuse, and he was still as pale as ever, but the ghost of a smile was tugging at his lips. "I reckon I'll have to change the definition of a barrel of frogs in a tearoom."

Kíli let out a huff of laughter, and Fíli's cheeks creaked up into a smile. Even Bragi's eyes twinkled slightly. After bringing Bilbo his pipe, Bragi sat between Kíli and Bofur, and Ehren followed, turning their group into a little circle, unbroken. Fíli, beside Dís, beside Bilbo, beside Kíli, beside Vinca, beside Bofur, beside Nori, beside Ehren, beside Bragi. It was an unbroken circle, yet an incomplete one. There were so many who should be there, should be with them, now that times were so dark. But they were only nine.

"A lass," Bofur said suddenly, breaking the silence with a slight smile. "It's about time you had a little lass. Another lad'll be too much trouble, if the ones you've already had are anything to go by."

"Not if she's anything like Nelly," Fíli said over Kíli's protestations.

"I am the absolute paradigm of innocence and obedience-"

"Oh, that's true." Bofur nodded at Fíli, ignoring Kíli altogether. "And she'd be spoilt rotten to boot, all those aunties and uncles."

"-never done anything wrong in my life, I have nothing to do with Amad's grey hair-"

"I bet she'll have the best curls any dwarf has ever seen," said Bragi, smiling faintly. "Better than yours, Ehren – you'll be so jealous."

"-truly, just the best child anyone could ask for-"

"S'pose I could relinquish my crown to a real dwobbit," Ehren said.

"-don't know what you're talking about-"

By now, smiles had been coaxed to the faces of both Fíli's parents. Weary, worried smiles, but smiles nonetheless.

"I'd like a little sister," Fíli commented, his tiny spark of hope growing stronger. Logically, he thought it should be the opposite – his mother was now in more danger than ever, and she was not young. The last four babies had not survived. But something deep in his soul insisted that this baby would be different. That hope was still alive – that this baby was still alive.

"-really, it's just insulting that you would even consider me as a troublemaker-"

"Alright, Kíli, that's enough now," Bilbo murmured, though his smile lingered on his lips.

Kíli smiled back sheepishly, and then shifted to rest his head on Bilbo's shoulder. He met Fíli's eyes, and nodded slowly. "It's going to be alright in the end, you know. If it's not alright, it's not the end. That's what Adalgrim says."

Bragi snorted, a bitter grief lacing his tone. "By that logic we're only at the beginning, or at best the start of the middle. I'm not sure I want to see it through to the end."

No one had any reply for that. Koda loped away from the wolves' share of the deer, howling softly as he placed his head in Bragi's lap. Tears shimmered in Bragi's eyes and he bowed low, burying his face in the wolf's fur.

After a long moment, Kíli began to hum. It was not a tune Fíli knew, though it was familiar. Something he had heard once in passing, perhaps. The melody was soft, but hopeful, and when he heard it Bragi seemed to relax. Assured by his friend's response, Kíli began to sing.

 _"And the young lass said;_

 _'Come dance with me,_

 _Come dance through the winds and the willows!_

 _Come dance with me,_

 _Dance and be free,_

 _O'er the fading hills and old groves.'_

 _/_

 _And the young lad said;_

 _'Not yet my lass,_

 _Not yet, while blood runs through me._

 _I can't yet lass,_

 _Though I want to, love,_

 _Dance with you where'er your heart leads'_

 _/_

 _So the young lass said;_

 _'I'll wait for thee,_

 _I'll wait for thee in the moonlight._

 _I'll stay my feet_

 _'til I can dance with thee,_

 _Be the wait an age or fortnight.'_

 _/_

 _But the young lad cried;_

 _'Don't wait my love!_

 _Don't wait for me to feel joy._

 _You dance my lass,_

 _Dance on my love,_

 _For your joy could never pain me._

 _/_

 _I miss you lass_

 _With every bone in me,_

 _I ache for you to fly home._

 _But dance my lass_

 _And I will laugh my love,_

 _Til I can dance through winds and willows.'_

 _/_

 _And the young lass said;_

 _'I'll dance for thee,_

 _I'll dance through the times that part us._

 _You laugh my lad,_

 _Live long my love,_

 _We will meet when old age takes thee.'_

 _/_

 _So the young lad laughed,_

 _Lived long in peace,_

 _In the rolling hills and green groves._

 _And the lass danced on_

 _To their own sweet song,_

 _Til he came at last through the willows._

 _/_

 _E_ _'er now they dance_

 _Through the leas and hills,_

 _And dance and laugh together._

 _Lad and lass laugh on_

 _And to their own sweet song_

 _Dance for'er, through winds and willows."_

Throughout the song, Bragi had slowly rose, staring at Kíli and drinking in every word. As Kíli's voice faded into the sound of the crackling flames, Bragi sniffed, and snuggled into Fíli's side.

"Does 'dance through the willows' mean die, then?" he murmured.

Kíli nodded, rubbing at his eyes. "Die, or be dead. It comes from Old Shire talk. No one really knows why, or where it came from.

Bragi sniffed, and dragged his sleeve across his eyes. "It's… better than… less… It's a good song, Kíli."

Swallowing, Kíli nodded, and Fíli noticed that his brother's eyes were bloodshot, and looked very heavy.

"We should get some sleep," Fíli sighed, hoping to prompt his brother into bed. "I-"

"I'll take first watch," said Bilbo, looking at Dís, and she nodded slightly.

Right. Well. Fíli had no desire to begrudge his parents some privacy, so he bade them both goodnight and shuffled into bed between Kíli and Bragi. With a sigh, Fíli let his eyes close.

A baby.

Of all the times that Amad could have fallen pregnant again, this must be one of the worst. But how far along was she, and why had he not noticed? Why had Frodo and Vinca realised before Fíli had? And did this child really have a hope to survive?

Fear was creeping up Fíli's spine now, coiling around him like a giant serpent. It was not just the baby at stake. What if this time his mother was killed? He closed his eyes tighter. He could not think like that. Could not dwell on 'if's and 'maybe's – not when so much was at stake.

If only he could persuade her to return to Rivendell – but he knew it would be impossible. His mother's mind was set, and she was going to Erebor, with only a hope and a prayer as maternity care. Fíli and Kíli would not make very good midwives – of that, he was sure.

Soren would be even worse. He did not like anything 'squishy', in his own words. Worms, guts, umbilical cords – all held an equal horror for him.

Fíli's body jerked with a silent sob. Soren would have been worse.

Would _have_.

Beside him, Kíli shuffled and squirmed, and then he was cuddled around Fíli and his face was pressed into his brother's chest. Fíli held him close, and thanked the Valar that he was still here. That death had not taken his Kíli, too.

Soon, his tears were replaced by soft snores, and only Bilbo and Dís remained awake. For a long while, they watched the fire and did not speak.

"I'm sorry for shouting," Bilbo said finally.

"I'm sorry that I did not tell you," she replied, her voice breaking. "Truly, Bilbo, I did not mean to endanger anyone, but, I – I could not bring myself to hurt you more than you were already hurting."

"You could have told me sooner," sighed Bilbo. His voice was void of accusation, of anger. It was simply weary, and tinted with grief. "Before any of this happened, before Gandalf knocked on the door."

"But it was early, and the odds were so low, even for a normal pregnancy. I wanted to wait until I was sure, until I thought the child had a chance…"

"They have a chance now." Bilbo snapped a twig and threw half into the fire. "You know they do, but you are scared."

"Of course I am scared," she whispered back, seizing his hand. "Bilbo, I do not know how much more grief we can take."

"As much as we are dealt," replied Bilbo, twisting to put his other hand on her cheek. He spoke with a passion that rivalled the fire, a fierce, searing reverence that set every word alight. "As much pain and hell as we are sent, as long as there is breath in us and family around us. If the world is cruel enough to take all but one of our kin from us we will endure it, and we will hold for what family we have left. We will take it for our boys – for our girls – be they children or siblings or cousins. We may loathe it and curse it and writhe in anguish every night we have left, but we will take it, and endure it, until the very end. Until you or I stand alone of our family. I pray we will not have to take more grief, but if we do, we will. We will hold, until Sauron himself rips us away, too."

Her shoulders rising and falling with her quick, shallow breaths, Dís nodded. Tears fell into her lap. "Until we dance through the willows," she whispered.

Bilbo nodded, sobbing and smiling at once. "Until we dance through the willows."

"I love you, Bilbo. More than any poem or song or simple words of mine will ever be able to say."

"I love you, too." Bilbo gave a watery laugh. "That's what got us into this mess."

A hysterical giggle burst from her lips, but she clamped a hand over her mouth and glanced quickly at the sleepers around her. None of them stirred, and she relaxed.

"I understand why you didn't tell me," Bilbo said slowly. "I think… I think I would do the same. But please, Dís, please… promise me you won't keep something like that from me again."

"Never," she swore, almost before he finished speaking. She leant forward and kissed him, fierce and desperate and afraid all at once, and he kissed her back, and wound his fingers through her hair. Then she rested her head on his shoulder. "Tell me," she murmured. "The song Kíli sang – is it one of yours?"

"No, no," Bilbo replied. He began to draw circles in her shoulder with his thumb. "No, that's a tune as old as the hills, an old folk song from Tuckborough, I believe."

"I like it," she sighed, her eyes closing slightly. "What's it called?"

"The Dance of Winds and Willows. Go to sleep, Amrâlimê, I can watch alone. You look like you need a decent night…" He traced the circles beneath her eyes with his finger and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Sing it for me," she said. "Sing it for me, and then I will sleep."

Smiling just a little, Bilbo took a deep breath, and began the song again. It was much quieter and a little slower than Kíli's performance, but it warmed their hearts all the more for it.

And as her mother drifted off to sleep and her father sang of willow trees, an unborn child gave a kick, and began to suck her thumb.

 **So – we are officially caught up! You were also going to get a snippet of Bofin in Rivendell tonight but I was knocked out by the flu for two days so all my work, including Dark Side, was hit out of whack. So, while that scene was technically included in The Last, The Lost, The Least, as it does not count as a full chapter, we're into the unknown!**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and take care until I see you next!**


	39. Chapter 39: Raising the Stakes

**Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Raising of the Stakes**

Step by weary step, Glóin and Lani clambered up the High Pass. That morning they had found a stream in which they washed their wounds, but the water was cold as ice, and caused more pain than it eased. Now that his undershirt served as his bandages, Glóin was feeling more of the lash of the wind. He was not sure how much blood he had lost, or how much longer denial would keep him on his feet.

Beside him, Lani's limp was growing more pronounced, and her head and tail both hung low. But she had not looked back once, and so Glóin would not look back either. Hs own head bowed before the wind, and his knees sagged under the weight of his body, but on he trudged. Onwards. Ever onwards.

As they climbed, the path grew more twisting, and the trees grew sparser. The road began to grow inwards, closer to the mountain itself, and Glóin's grip on his axe grew stronger. Snow began to fall, small, light flakes that melted as soon as they hit the path, but still bit into Glóin's face.

If they were ambushed before they got a chance to rest, he did not doubt his own doom. His strength was waning, to the point where his head span, and almost made him wonder if he was still bleeding. He was trembling like some half-drowned kitten, and his axe was now demoted to serve as nothing more than a walking stick. He was in no fit state to fight.

As if thinking along the same lines, Lani raised her nose and began to sniff at the air. Almost at once, her shoulders drew back and her hackles raised, stopping in her tracks. Glóin stopped too, and Lani let out a whine, gazing wearily up at him and pawing once at the ground.

It was a gesture that even Glóin could understand.

Wait.

He waited.

She limped forwards, and then disappeared around the corner. Snow blew gently down to the ground, and it was deathly silent. Then, a mournful howl rose from ahead, and Glóin staggered forward as fast as he could, cursing his legs as he went.

"There's nothing wrong with _you,_ dammit!"

He rounded the corner, but the path wove around again, into the mountainside, and he made his way to the next bend. He walked around it. Clamped a hand over his nose and mouth.

Before him stood seven stakes, each six foot tall, and drilled firmly into the ground.

And atop five of them, were severed heads.

Of dwarves.

Glóin's knees gave out beneath him, and crashed into the rocky ground below, so hard that his skin broke.

He could not recognise the three heads on the centre stakes. It was horrifically clear that they had been there for weeks at least, but more likely several months. Only small slithers of rotting flesh clung to the yellowing bones, and he could see the wood of the stake through the gaping jaws and empty eye sockets. There were no distinguishing features left. Nothing that he could use to identify the dead.

Except a symbol he knew well. The mark of the King's messengers.

It was carved into each of their skulls.

His stomach heaving and his heart thudding painfully against his ribs, Glóin shifted his gaze outwards. The other heads had not been there as long. In the cold mountain air, they were only now beginning to rot. Both faces were covered in rivulets of dried blood, streaming from the same markings. The mark of the king's messenger, carved into their skin. While they were still alive.

They were still recognisable.

Still identical.

Austen and Auden.

Strong and sudden as an earthquake, anguish and fury rose within Glóin – an agony for his kinsmen, for their families, for Dori – and a rage towards the goblins of the mountains that made his blood red hot, and surged through his muscles. He stood, and his lungs burnt under the desire to roar with a ferocity to put Smaug to shame.

Goblins had done this, he knew it. They had murdered his people, murdered his _friends_ to cut Erebor from its princes and allies, and they would pay with blood.

But he kept his teeth jammed shut, and forced air out through his nose to keep from screaming. If the damned creatures were still around, he would not have his revenge. He would have his head on pike of his own.

So he let his wrath draw him to his feet, and he raised his axe like a weapon, and not a cane. And then he surged forward, and hewed at the first stake, swinging again and again until it crashed to the ground with a thud. A growl escape him as he hacked at the next stake, and the next and the next, his arms wet with sweat or blood, until all seven pikes lay in splinters on the ground.

The stench of blood and sweat and rot hit his nose, and Lani whimpered.

"Keep watch," he snarled, kicking the wood into a loose pile. Then he swallowed, quashed his nausea, and freed the heads of the slaughtered dwarves. One by one, he laid them atop the wood, and the put the twins together. Let their cheeks touch.

Panting heavily, Glóin wrenched off his bloodied gloves and let them fall beneath the wood. Reaching into his pocket, he took out his tinder box, and a small sack of Flame Powder – another gift from Balin. With shaking hands, Glóin threw the ash-like powder over the wood, and the heads. Then, he set it all ablaze.

"Let's just get out of here," he growled at Lani, and she came to his side, and nuzzled his neck. They moved as fast as their aching limbs would enable them, chased by the stench of smoke and burning further and further up the road.

At last, Glóin could go no further. His eyes fell on a side track, and he stumbled down it. Sure enough, there was a little cave nearby, half-hidden from the road. He jutted his chin towards it. Breathing was too hard to allow him to talk.

The dwarf and the wolf hobbled inside, and sank down against the back wall. Lani sprawled across the ground, her tongue lolling out as she panted. Glóin's arm was screaming in pain, and he had to re-tie his bandages. His head hung low, and as adrenalin left him, hopelessness seeped into its place. He wished for a bed. For a bite to eat.

For a way to send word back to the mountain.

"We've gotta tell 'em," he muttered to Lani. She raised her eyes, but did not raise her head. "Thorin, and Jari, and Dori… they need to know about Austen and Auden, about the others. But Dis and Bilbo – we cannot go both ways? So what do we do?"

Lani whined softly, and closed her eyes. Gave no other answer.

Glóin sighed, letting his own eyes flutter closed. Fragments of half-dreams played in his mind as he lingered in the place between sleep and waking, too tired to stay alert, and yet too afraid to succumb to unconsciousness.

Dimly, he became aware that he could hear the sound of stone on stone, and waking chased the dreams away. He opened his aching eyes and groaned. Goblins, mining. That was the last thing he needed.

But Lani raised her head and twitched an ear, and Glóin listened harder. No, that was not stone on stone – it was hoofbeats?

Glóin's heart stuttered in an attempt to speed up, and he clutched at his axe. Lani clambered awkwardly onto her feet, her chest heaving as she breathed. As loudly as his pride yelled at him to stand too, Glóin could not. He was too weary, of body and of heart. The wolf took a couple of steps forward and swayed, but then stood up very straight, blinking quickly. She was surprised – but not afraid.

The hoofbeats drew closer and she let out a soft howl.

The noise paused.

Began again, faster, and the next thing Glóin knew, a pony was trotting down the path and into their cave. Immediately, Lani threw herself forward, a mess of wobbling limbs like a puppy learning to run, and rubbed her face against the pony's legs. To Glóin's amazement, she even stood on her back legs, pawing at the pony's shoulders and attempting to lick at its face, before her fatigue caught her, and sent her paws back down to the ground.

She slipped, and whimpered, and the pony lowered his head with a soft whicker. They snuffled and sniffled each other, and the pony nuzzled Lani while she licked at his face. Glóin could not help but smile gruffly. At least _someone_ got a family reunion, though he had not expected to see Sven again.

But wait –

That was not his pony.

It wore no tack, and was an entirely different colour. But it was a pony that Lani knew, so did it belong to one of the others? Why was it here, alone and unsaddled?

As if feeling the dwarf's stare, the pony looked at Glóin and huffed, proudly. In fact, he would even go so far to say that the beast looked smug.

"Odo?" he asked incredulously. "Where did you come from?"

The pony did not reply. Of course, he did not – he was a damned pony, not some freakishly clever wolf like Lani. But Lani whined and Odo tossed his head. She twitched her ears and he stomped his foot, and then Lani let out a sigh, licking Odo's nose. Then, she ambled back to Glóin and laid beside him, resting her head in his lap.

"Well?" Glóin prompted. "What did he say?"

Lani raised an eyebrow and cocked her head, a gesture she very much liked. It was her 'foolish dwarf' face, as young Eyja called it.

"Did he say if Gimli's alright?"

Lani gave a soft whine and nodded. Glóin let out a sigh. Well, that was something, at least.

"Right, well," he said gruffly. "I'm too tired to think about – well, anything. I'm going to get some sleep. D'you think it's safe to sleep?"

Lani looked at Luno and gave a soft whine, closing her eyes. Odo laid down at the entrance to the little cave, staring outwards as if he was keeping watch.

Now, Glóin had never wanted to be the one flouncing through the wilds with his animal companions, and little song birds flitting after his every step, and he did not think much of a pony's ability to be a sufficient guard. But he was too weary to care, and he knew that to recover his strength and his wits, he needed to rest. So he laid down, and rested his head on his good arm.

Immediately, Lani crawled closer, shifting so that her head was resting on his chest. Glóin considered shifting, and pushing her off, but he thought better of it. At least now he was warm.

He closed his eyes, and let sleep wash over him.

When he woke it was dark, and Lani was gone.

 **So, I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! For the first chapter in new territory it is short, I now, but I've been busy and have work tomorrow. I'd rather give you guys a short but complete chapter than a goopy mess of unbaked work. Anyways, please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading!**


	40. Chapter 40: The Mirror of Galadriel

**Hey there! As ever, sorry for any typos, and sorry for the delay. I had a really long day at work on Friday and didn't want to have a subpar chapter as a result. I'm fairly happy with this one though.**

 **Chapter Forty: The Mirror of Galadriel**

When the elves of Lórien began their lament for Gandalf, Legolas had to walk away. Aragorn and the hobbits were able to understand, but Boromir and the dwarves looked to him for translation. It was not a task that his heart felt capable of. Not yet. The grief was too near, too strong. If it were up to Legolas, no songs would be sung for Gandalf, not yet. It was a time for tears, and not for song. So he wandered among the trees, and by the little streams in the quiet city, and kept to his own thought. He met a couple of other elves, but he found that speaking to them made him miss his own home more dearly.

He missed his friends, and his kin, and he missed his father. But the more he thought of the Woodland Realm, the more convinced he was that he could not return. Not, at least, until he had done all that he could to help Frodo. Not now, not after what had happened to Gandalf.

He could not turn back now.

But despite his grief, he enjoyed exploring Lothlórien. It eased his heart to see the lands where his people had come from, to see the beauty that he had only heard of in song. Running his hands over the bark of the trees and trailing his fingers through the clean river water, Legolas felt almost as though he was home. He wondered when his own people had grown to feel threatened by Celeborn and Galadriel, and when their songs of awe had grown tainted by fear.

It saddened him, and for the first time since adolescence, he found himself yearning to talk to his father's father. Oropher had died in the pits of Mordor, long before Legolas was born, but when Thranduil spoke of his father it was with reverence and adoration. Legolas wanted to know what his grandfather would have thought of how isolated the Woodland Realm had become, or if it had been Oropher who began to pull their people away from their extended kin.

It was when he was lost in the midst of these thoughts, on the day after they arrived, that Legolas came upon something that surprised him.

Gimli was standing by a one of the great mallorn trees, completely alone, and his fingers roamed over the smooth, silver bark. There was a frown on his brow and on his lips, and his eyes were unfocused, as if misted by some thought or dream. Legolas made to walk away and leave the dwarf to his thoughts, but curiosity won out, and he walked over instead.

"It appears that living with hobbits has rubbed off on you," he said.

Gimli jumped, spinning around and glaring at Legolas. Then, he looked back at the tree, and spoke gruffly. "I'll have you know that I was plenty curious before a dozen hobbits waltzed into my family."

"Curious about trees?"

Gimli did not reply. His hand fell away from the tree.

"Why are you not with the others?" asked Legolas.

"Why aren't you?" Gimli replied, a little sharply.

Legolas gave a sad smile. "I wish to explore. It helps to ease my grief. And I would not impose on your family, should you need to be alone."

Gimli looked up. "Really?" His tone was laced with disbelief, and Legolas' heart sank. For the two decades he had known Gimli, their friendship had been littered with taunts and jests, and they rarely spoke without some form of insult-based humour. It did not surprise him that Gimli doubted his intentions. Yet now, the barbs were beginning to sting.

"Yes," he said softly. "I did not mean to pry. I will leave you now."

He turned to walk away, but Gimli spoke, his neck craning back to stare at the golden canopy. "I did not know trees could climb so high, or have bark so soft. I did not know that trees could be so beautiful. Is it because of her, do you think?"

Legolas paused, and though he had an idea of whom Gimli spoke, he could not imagine where this train of conversation had come from. "Because of who?"

"The Lady of the Light," sighed Gimli, his voice soft with awe. "Legolas, I did not know that such beauty could exist in a living soul – a wonder greater than even the Arkenstone. I have not the words for the beauty I have seen. If this quest is to take my life, I can rest in the knowledge that I have seen that which is fairest. Do you know what she said to me?"

A thrill ran through Legolas as he remembered the lady's voice in his own head, and her assurances to him. He could not imagine telling another soul what she had said, not yet. "What did she say?"

"She spoke of Moria," murmured Gimli, "of Kheled-zâram, and Kibil-nâla, and Khazad-dûm, and she spoke of the beauty of the days of old and the greatness of our kings. She spoke of them in my own tongue, in the language we guard as close as our kin. And she looked at me with understanding, with _care,_ without prejudice. No elf has ever looked at me in such a way before."

For a moment, Legolas had no words of his own. Even with his fondness for a select number of the dwarves of Erebor, Legolas had never imagined that they could be so openminded, so respectful…

Dwarves were coarse, and their perception of beauty went only as far as stone, and their priorities lay in the gems they mined before the lives of their people. They were unrefined and lusted for violence, and they were merciless to the point of cruelty. They had no respect for authority. Even the most honourable would stab an ally to protect his hoard, and they saw little value in the lives of other folk. That was what Legolas had known his whole life. But it was wrong.

When he first met Kíli Baggins, and saw the ease with which he spoke Sindarin, he had wondered if dwarves' xenophobia was learned, or innate. The following year, when he saw how Gimli, barely into his adolescence, had protected little Pippin, and refused to entrust his lives to strangers, Legolas had paused again. It was a matter of trust, Gimli had said. And he had held the value of Pippin's life above his own, before he even reached adulthood. Then, Legolas had learnt that dwarves could be selfless. The more time that he spent around Gimli and Bróin, the less Legolas believed in his father's opinions. The way that the two young dwarves protected and interacted with the hobbits of Erebor, and even with the men in their company, disproved Thranduil's every point.

Dwarves were not always coarse. To their kith and kin they were gentle, and kind, and they held the lives of their family high above their own. Their lack of table manners did not necessarily equate to lack of refinement, for their culture was rich with tradition, and the readiness with which they drew their weapons came not from bloodlust but from courage and selflessness. They were merciless only to such folk as orcs or trolls, and never dolled out death without justice. They had no respect for tyrants, and believed that authority was earnt. They were not driven by gold-lust, but by duty and loyalty and love, and he could not imagine Gimli stabbing any innocent soul over gold, be they a friend or stranger.

And dwarves saw the beauty in far more than gems of the earth.

Yet Gimli had never seen an elf gaze at him without judgement before. Shame curled Legolas' stomach. Even after twenty years of amicability, had he ever truly looked at Gimli, at any of the dwarves, without the veil of his misconceptions? His _father's_ misconceptions.

Well, he was looking now.

He smiled. "Would you like to explore with me, my friend?"

Gimli's eyebrows flew so high up his forehead that they met his hairline. "What?"

"Do you wish to explore with me?" repeated Legolas, nodding at the land around them. "We may meet more of the Galadhrim, and you can tell me of Kheled-zâram, and of Khazad-dûm."

For a moment, Gimli simply stared at him, his face hard with shock, but then his expression melted into a smile. "Aye. I would like that."

* * *

Looking back, Frodo could never quite say just how long they had stayed in Lothlórien. Perhaps it had been a few days, or maybe a few weeks. But one evening, not long before they left, he and Sam went for a walk alone. They spoke of many things, and spoke not a word about the quest. Instead, they talked about their childhoods, and shared memories beneath the golden leaves.

"Do you remember when Bolin was born, and we tried to make him a rocking horse?" Frodo asked as the sun finally sank, and Sam laughed.

"Aye, I remember. I remember how it felt when that hammer hit my foot too. My toe swelled up twice the size!" He screwed his face up and twisted his accent, doing a rather uncanny impression of Bofur. "Sam, my boy, if you wanted to start making toys I could've taught you before you took out your toes! And if you start small, one day you'll be able to make a rocking horse that _doesn't_ look like a dead worm."

Frodo laughed. "Yes, it wasn't the most handsome of beasts, was it?"

"Hey, don't be cruel now, Frodo," said Sam, his eyebrows lowering into a look of feigned annoyance. "He interrupted us before we had a chance to add the ears. That would've made a whole world of difference."

"Perhaps. But it's probably a good thing you nearly chopped your toes off – _Bofur's_ rocking horse was fantastic."

" _Is_ fantastic," corrected Sam.

"I thought it broke?"

"Oh no, that's just what Bolin told everybody," Sam said, a grin spreading across his face. "He was tired of the rest of us playing with it all the time, so he hid it in the back of Bofur's workshop. Only Bofur, Bifur and I ever really go back there."

"And you didn't tell me?" cried Frodo, though his own look of outrage was diluted by his grin. "I loved that thing!"

"Exactly! Bolin was sick of not getting a look in. Besides, I'm not sure that it'd be possible to break that thing. I'm sure it's magic." Sam paused, and then sighed. "Boy, I'd love to see some real magic. You can feel it here, all over the place. In the trees, in the air – but you can't _see_ it. But the Lady, Frodo, I'm sure _she_ could do some wonderful things, if she wanted to."

"I'm sure she could, Sam," agreed Frodo, but the thought of magic brought back memories of playing with fireworks, and a pair of bright blue eyes beneath bushy, grey eyebrows. He sighed. "But I do not think it can help us now. Without Gandalf…"

Sam's face crumpled into grief, so quickly that Frodo regretted saying anything. Nodding slowly, Sam sighed sadly. "Aye… We'll be missing him more when we leave here, I bet. I-"

Sam cut off, and Frodo followed his gaze. His breath caught in his throat and he and Sam bowed low. The Lady Galadriel was walking towards them, a gentle smile on her face. Her hair shone bright as the stars, and her dress was white as snow. Her feet were as bare as theirs, but they were clean, and unspoiled by the dirt and grass-stains that ever covered hobbit feet. She said nothing, but beckoned to them, and without a second thought, they followed.

She led them down towards the southern slopes of the hill of Caras Galadhon, taking a path that, somehow, Frodo could not be remember seeing before. They passed through a high, green hedge into a small enclosed garden. In the centre of it, there stood a small basin atop a pedestal, and beside it there was a silver ewer. It looked remarkably like a bird bath. A small smile tugged at Galadriel's lips, and Frodo's cheeks burnt as he remembered that she could hear his thoughts.

She took the ewer and began to fill the basin from the stream that ran down the side of the garden. "This," she said, "is the Mirror of Galadriel. I have brought you here that you may look in it, if you will."

"What will we see?" Frodo asked, somewhat hesitantly. If this mirror showed him something like he had seen at Tom Bombadil's, he did not want to know.

"I can command the Mirror to show many things. Things that are. Things that were. And things that may yet come to pass. But the Mirror can also show things unbidden, and even the wisest cannot always tell what he sees."

The word 'no' formed on Frodo's lips, but somehow, he could not bring himself to utter it.

"What of you, Master Gamgee?" asked Galadriel. "Did you not say that you wished to see some magic?"

"I, I did, my Lady," stammered Sam, as his cheeks flamed red. "I wouldn't mind a peep, if I may. Just to know what's a-going on at home, if you will."

"Then look," said the Lady, holding out her hand. "But take care not to touch the water."

Sam stepped up to the pedestal, and peered down into the basin. At first, he saw nothing but the stars. They were beautiful and bright, and then they began to fly, shooting stars streaming across the surface of the water, before they went out altogether. Sam gasped as the Shire appeared before his eyes, and he saw his own, old house, and his Gaffer sitting by the kitchen fireplace. There was no fire, but there was a letter crumpled in his hand, and he was staring at the empty grate.

Then the image changed, as seamless and senseless as a dream, and he saw the house of Adalgrim Took, and he saw Orla, Ola, and Bodin asleep in one bed. It must be a squash and a squeeze, Sam was sure, to fit the three dwarflings, Esme, Saradoc, Paladin, Ellie, _and_ Pearl into Daisy and Adalgrim's small house. But the adults were nowhere to be seen, and a figure far too big to be a hobbit loomed over the bed. Sam clutched the stone basin as the stranger lunged, and ripped the dwarflings from their bed.

"No," gasped Sam, but already the scene had changed, and he saw the Shire alight with flame. Folk were running from ruffians and orcs, and as he watched his Gaffer was bound in chains. "No!" he cried, staggering back, away from the Mirror. "No, no, no, I've got to go home!"

"What did you see?" asked Frodo, taking Sam's arm. "What's wrong?"

"I, I saw the Shire! And ruffians breaking into Mister Adalgrim's house and snatching the little ones, and fires in the night and, hobbits in chains, and oh, it was awful, I've got to go!"

"You did not wish to go home before," said the Lady gently. "Though you knew that evil may be befalling the Shire. You must remember that not all you see has come to pass, and perhaps it never will."

Pale as death, Sam stared at her for a long moment, and then he looked at Frodo. Tears filled his eyes, and he hung his head.

"There I go again, not thinking before I speak," he muttered. "I didn't mean it, Frodo. I'll follow you to the end, you know I will. But I wish that there was something more I could do – oh, I wish we'd just stayed in Erebor."

And with that, he sat down on the grass, and put his head in his hands.

Frodo swallowed, and looked up at Galadriel. "Do you advise me to look?"

"I do not advise either way," she said. "For there are both rewards and dangers in seeing. But I would not have brought you here, had I not thought you to have the wisdom and courage to proceed."

Taking a deep breath, Frodo raised his head. "I will look."

She stepped back, and Frodo walked slowly towards the Mirror. There was a small, smooth step before it, and he had to climb it to peer down. Excitement fluttered in his gut, as fragile as a moth's wings, and he took a deep breath.

Like Sam, the first he saw was the stars, but almost at once they vanished, and the next thing Frodo saw was his parents. His breath caught in his throat as their faces appeared before him – crisp and real and truer than any reflection or memory. For the first time in twenty years he saw their faces, unchanged by memory and unhindered by the stroke of paintbrush or mark of charcoal. His mother's face was flushed and sweaty, and his father was pale, but they were both beaming ear from ear, and there was a blue-eyed baby in Primula's arms.

Frodo was in her arms.

He saw himself learning to walk, tottering from his father's arms into Kíli's, and being caught by Bilbo when he fell. Bilbo had hardly aged a day since then, but Frodo had not realised how heavy his uncle's eyes had become. In the mirror, they were light and bright as stars, and there was no sign of even laughter lines on his face. And Kíli was yet to grow any sign of a beard, and his hair was back in a high ponytail, and he looked younger than Pippin did now.

Then the scene changed again, and Frodo's stomach gave swoop like that it made when he road on the boats and barges of Lake-town. He saw Thorin in his armchair in the Company Room, with Frodo asleep in his lap. Thorin took Frodo's shield necklace in his fingers and then smiled, kissing the hobbit's curly hair. And then Frodo disappeared from the picture, and the grey outnumbered the black in Thorin's beard, and the king was the one asleep. A pained frown was carved into his face, and in his hand was his old oak shield.

The shield slipped.

Fell to the floor.

And Thorin did not stir.

Then, Frodo saw what lay outside of the kingdom: New Dale was ablaze as if Smaug had come again, and an enormous army filled the plains before the mountain. The fields cultivated in and around the mountain were either smouldering or still in flames, and the hobbits' gardens were trampled by orc boots. On the horizon, dark clouds were rolling in.

And then darkness overcame the entirety of the mirror, and Frodo looked closer. An eye appeared, lidless, wreathed in flame, and he gasped. It swelled until it filled the whole mirror, and roved this way and that, searching.

Searching for _him_. Fear wrapped around his heart, and the ring grew heavier and heavier, and dragged his head down, towards the water. Curls of steam were rising from the Mirror, and the ring slipped out from beneath his shirt, dangling but an inch from the surface of the water.

"Do not touch the water," Galadriel said softly, and at once the eye vanished, and all he could see in the basin was the twinkling light of the stars.

Gasping, Frodo stepped backwards, and found that he was shaking all over.

"I know what it is that you last saw," said the Lady, "for it is also in my mind. Do not be afraid – ever the Dark Lord seeks to find his ring, and ever he gropes to find me, and my thought, but here he cannot reach us. The door is closed."

Frodo frowned slightly, and his eyes caught sight of the starlight glittering on her finger – of a ring. It seemed almost like it was an illusion, but the closer he looked, the more certain he was that he knew. This was one of the three elven rings.

"Yes," she said aloud. "This is Nenya, the Ring of Adamant, and I am its keeper. The Dark Lord does not know this, though he suspects. It is by the power of this ring, untouched by Sauron, that we can endure his forces, unless he comes upon our gates himself."

A fire glinted in the Lady's eyes, a strength that Frodo was sure he would never come close to gaining himself.

"If you ask it of me, I will give you the One Ring," said Frodo, his heart hammering somewhere up in his throat. "For you are wise and fearless and fair beyond any hope of mine."

Galadriel's eyes widened, and Frodo drew out the ring. He laid it on his palm, held out his hand, and she stepped forward. "I do not deny that my heart has greatly desired this," she murmured. "Long have I wondered what I should do, should the Great Ring come into my power, and you offer it to me freely." Frodo swallowed as the Lady seemed to grow taller, throwing out her arms and emitting such a light that it hurt to look at her. "In place of the Dark Lord you shall have a Queen, and I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the dawn! Fair as the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountains, and as deadly as the sea, and the storm, and the lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth! All shall love me and despair!"

Frodo curled away, unable to tear his eyes away from a figure so beautiful and worshipful and _dreadful,_ but before his very eyes she let her arms fall to her sides, and the light faded, and she looked just as she had before. She laughed, softly. Sadly.

"I pass the test," she said, her eyes lingering on Frodo. "I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Galadriel."

They stood in silence, as the moon climbed higher into the sky, and the two hobbits tried to process what they had seen, and heard, and felt. Finally, when midnight fell, the Lady spoke.

"Let us return to your companions," she said, and her voice was gentle again. "In the morning, you must depart, for we each have chosen our paths, and lingering longer would not be wise. The tides of fate are flowing."

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, and that my sleepiness did not result in any awful typos! Please do let me know, and I should be back with you on Monday Take care, and thanks for reading :D**


	41. Chapter 41: The Letter

**As ever, please forgive any of my typos. I'm particularly tired today (surprise surprise) so I hope I haven't missed one, but I'm not sure I've managed to catch them all**

 **Chapter Forty-One: The Letter**

Adalgrim Took had never expected to become the surrogate grandfather of three stranded dwarflings, but when it happened he was not really surprised. After all, Paladin and Esmeralda had all but adopted Kíli as their brother, and as their father, Adalgrim had been more than happy to take on the uncle position. As such, he had often wondered if one day he would have little dwarflings, or even half-dwarf, half-hobbits running around underneath his feet. Of course, he had expected them to be Kíli's – or perhaps Fíli's, or one of his grandchildren's offspring. If Nelly married a hobbit, Adalgrim would likely grow a beard of his own from the shock.

But, kin or not, the three young children of Bombur had taken to him right away. Esme had explained to him that they had no grandparents of their own, with both their parents being orphaned in their youth, and that perhaps explained their eagerness to call him 'Dad-dad' – a term that was, apparently, dwarven slang for grandfather. Adalgrim quite liked it. It was rather playful.

As were the three young dwarflings.

Still, Adalgrim had a good idea what to expect from the young'uns. For the first few days after their uncles and brothers left with half of Adalgrim's family, they were quiet and tearful, and kept very close to Ellie and Pearl, but as the days fell into weeks, they returned to their usual, bouncy selves. After all, if you spend all your time worrying whenever your kin were out of sight, you would have more wrinkles than a raisin by the time you were thirty-three, and Adalgrim told them so. Every now and again, they would grow sullen – often around bedtime – and they had each asked Adalgrim when he thought their Amad and Adad would be there to pick them up. But the rest of the time, they were cheerful and content. They were doing well.

But they were doing well. So well, in fact, that Esme had felt perfectly comfortable suggesting a night out at the Green Dragon, and Adalgrim had been happy to babysit alone. Daisy had intended to stay with him, but her sister had come down with an awful cold, and Adalgrim had assured his wife that she ought to be with her.

"We'll be fine," he had said. "Go and take care of Ivy, and give her my love."

And he had, of course, been completely right. The evening had been quite lovely – they had played out great tales of adventure with the twins' dolls, then played a game of cards, and then finally, they had all cuddled up in Adalgrim's old armchair. He was not much of a reader, but Adalgrim knew a thousand stories, and the dwarflings listened to his every word.

Finally, though, the night grew old, and he grew weary.

"Right, I think that's enough storytelling for one night," he yawned, and the dwarflings let out yawned little protests of their own.

The doorbell jangled. At first, Adalgrim thought he had imagined it, but Bodin was frowning at the doorway, and Orla (or was it Ola?) was tilting her head curiously. The bell rang again.

"Hop along to bed, now," Adalgrim said, standing up and tipping the children from his lap. "Let's go see who that is…"

He tottered down the hallway, his legs aching. Somewhere deep down, he knew that he was getting too old to sit three dwarflings on his lap at a time. He opened the door, and was faced with someone's midsection.

Adalgrim blinked, and looked up, and then he blinked again, several times. There was an elf.

An elf. Knocking at his door.

He had never met an elf before.

"Hello," he said, remembering his manners. "What can I do for you?"

"Adalgrim Took?"

"Aye. And what's your name, when you're at home?"

"I am Galdor. I have a message for you, from Kíli Baggins."

Adalgrim's knees knocked into each other as they buckled. The old hobbit clutched the doorframe. "So they're safe then? They reached Rivendell alright?"

"They reached Rivendell," said Galdor, in an even tone that was almost haughty. Then, he reached into his cloak and pulled out an envelope, handing it over to Adalgrim. The elf's eyes fixed on something down the hall. They narrowed. "Were I in your position, I would do more to conceal those dwarves."

Adalgrim glanced over his shoulder at the watching twins, but when he looked back at this Galdor, the elf was already walking away.

"I beg your pardon," called Adalgrim angrily, "but just what do you mean by that?"

The elf turned around, in a movement more graceful than the wind itself. "I mean that these lands are no longer safe. I would not have come here for any purpose, had Lord Elrond himself not begged me. War is brewing on your borders, and I want no part in it. Already, there are whispers of rewards offered for the capture of enemy children. The children of prominent dwarf lords, for example. Your land is no longer safe, if ever it was safe to begin with. Good night."

And then he turned, and walked away.

It took Adalgrim a moment to realise that his own mouth was hanging open. He tried to speak, but neither his mind nor his tongue would cooperate, and he simply stammered and gaped like a landed fish. He did not know if he was more terrified at the news, or outraged at the way it was delivered.

"I don't think much of your manners!" he yelled, when at last he gathered the wits to sleep, but already the elf was enveloped by the darkness. Adalgrim's eyesight was not what it used to be.

Swallowing, Adalgrim closed the door, and after a second's pause, he bolted it. He gazed down at the envelope in his hands.

The paper was thick, heavy, and sealed with red wax. And with Kíli's seal. Across the front, in Kíli's handwriting, were only two words – 'Took House.' It was awfully non-specific. Almost like he did not want the recipient to be found, if the letter fell into the wrong hands. Adalgrim rubbed the back of his neck, and tried to stroke down the hair that stood on end.

He was grateful that he could hear the cattle-like footsteps of the young dwarflings running down the hall towards him – had they come out of nowhere and surprised him, Adalgrim might have had a heart attack.

"What was that, Dad-dad?" asked Orla, tugging on his arm. "Was that an _elf_? And why was he talking about _wars_? Is that letter from Amad, or Uncle Bofur?"

"I don't rightly know," answered Adalgrim, patting the girl's head absently. "But I will tell you in the morning. To bed now."

"But we're not sleepy," protested Bodin, and his sisters opened their mouths to back him up.

Adalgrim steeled his tone. "Now. I don't want any more noise from you tonight. Now, don't pout there, you're not in trouble. But you need to sleep, and I need to think."

The three dwarflings exchanged glances, and then fled down the hall to their bedroom. Adalgrim sighed, and hoped they would not still be disgruntled come morning. He had learnt that dwarfling children held grudges far more deeply than young hobbits.

Somewhere, a window was open.

There was a breeze coming through the house, a cold night wind, and Adalgrim went from room to room until he found it. It was in his office, and the room was cold as an ice box. He latched the window quickly, and drew the curtains. Then, he went to the kitchen, and brewed a strong pot of tea. When he had his tea, and a full plate of biscuits, he sat down in the comfortable chair by the kitchen fire.

Then, he took a butter knife, and opened the envelope.

 _Dear Tooks,_

 _We have reached our destination safely, and will return when the mood takes us._

 _With love and salutations,_

 _Kíli._

And that was it. A whole sheet of paper, and less than two dozen words. That could not be it – and why would Kíli use the word 'salutations' to mean goodbye? He was a smart lad, an educated one, and Adalgrim was sure that he knew it meant hello.

For almost an hour, he sat there, staring at the paper. The fire burnt low, and began to smoke a little more. When one of the logs collapsed with a particularly loud crack, he took that as a sign to move, and he rebuilt the fire. Then, he padded silently down the hall to check on the children.

 _…rewards offered for the capture of enemy children…_

Who would outwardly seek to kidnap _children?_ At once, he thought of the awful stories that Paladin had told him of Mirkwood. He remembered emptying his stomach over the toilet after hearing about how his son, and his five year old grandson, had been tortured, _tortured,_ in the middle of a dark wood. He remembered how pitiful the reasons seemed more Adalgrim thought about war, the less he wanted to know. He shook his head and pushed open the door to the back spare-room.

They were asleep, all three of them. Orla and Ola were entwined, and Bodin's hand was lying on one of their cheeks. Their window was closed, latched. Adalgrim smiled, and returned towards the kitchen.

But on the way, a sound chilled his blood.

Someone was rattling on the door-handle. Trying to get in.

He crept towards the door and heard muffled voices – and immediately he recognised them, and felt like a fool. He quickly unbolted the door, and found himself face to face with his son.

"What's going on?" Paladin asked quickly. "Papa, why did you lock the door?"

"Come in," he said, ushering them all inside.

Paladin immediately stepped back, and pushed Pearl and Ellie in before him. He tried to push Esmeralda, too, but she glared at him so viciously that he raised his hands in surrender and entered the house. Snickering, Saradoc took up the rear. Adalgrim rolled his eyes, even as he bolted the door.

"Come into the kitchen," he said. "We had a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?" Pearl looked around as though she expected a relative to pop out from behind the door.

As quickly and accurately as he was able, Adalgrim recounted the tale of the elf at the door, and repeated Galdor's every word.

"…but the letter says nothing. No more than two dozen words – there's less than that!"

"Let me see," Esmeralda asked, and he passed her the letter at once. Her eyes flickered over the words, and then she smiled slightly. "Salutations."

"Milk!" cried Saradoc.

"Ah…" Paladin nodded sagely. "Of course. That makes sense."

"Now, boys, girl, I'm too old to have you speaking in tongues on me," said Adalgrim, though he could not help but smile. "What do you mean?"

"When we were children, we used to play spies," explained Esme. "We'd watch old Mabel Willows baking and pretend we were gathering intel against the wicked witches of West Farthing."

"And we thought that 'salutations' was an adult way of saying goodbye," added Paladin, striding across the kitchen. To Adalgrim's bemusement, he pulled out the iron, and set it to heat above the fire. "So we used it whenever we played the game."

"And," Saradoc chipped in, "in a moment of my great brilliance, I figured out how to make invisible ink."

Pearl curled up her nose. "Using milk?"

"Yep," said Esme, narrowing her eyes and holding the paper very close to her face. "To see it, you just have to heat it."

"Invisible ink?" Adalgrim confirmed, raising his eyebrows. "And you were how old, Saradoc Brandybuck?"

His son-in-law winked. The nostalgia of their childhood games seemed to have calmed Paladin, Esme and Saradoc, though Adalgrim supposed that the alcohol that they had undoubtedly imbibed would have likely helped with that.

When the iron was hot, Esme laid the paper on the table and began to gently glide over it. To Adalgrim's amazement, runes began to appear, runes that covered most of the paper. Esme's frown deepened as they became clearer, until she put the iron down on its plate.

"I… I don't understand. It doesn't make any sense."

"What doesn't?" asked Paladin, leaning over her shoulder. The same, confused frown soon covered his face.

"The whole thing," said Esme, shaking her head. "Those aren't, they aren't words. Not in Khuzdul, in any case…"

"May I see?" asked Pearl, and Esme stood out of the way. Pearl sat down and considered the paper for a long moment. Then, she gave a soft laugh, and shook her head. "That's because it's elvish. Sindarin words, as they'd be written in the Westron alphabet, but with the equivalent Khuzdul symbol."

"Huh…" Adalgrim nodded, rather impressed.

Esme rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Well, you don't get much more Kíli than that. Your elvish is best of all of us, Pearl. What does it say?"

Pearl took a deep breath, and began to read aloud. "My family – I am sorry to be writing to you this way. I hope that you are in fact reading this, and not cursing my name to the skies for not sending more than a few words. We made it to Rivendell, but Fíli was injured, badly, and we lost Bali."

"Bali?" asked Adalgrim, even as his hands clenched around the arms of the chair.

"A pony," Esme said evenly. "Go on, Pearl."

"Fíli is now recovered. But we received word from Erebor – the city may soon be under siege. War is brewing in all parts of the world, you must make yourselves safe. Make yourselves ready. Keep the little ones hidden, for there are those who will seek them now. Send word to Ered Luin the next time the dwarves come to the market – do not arouse suspicion, but send for aid – for weapons, and advice. I hope with all my heart this fight will not reach you, but if it does, you must be ready."

Pearl's whisper faded away altogether, and she looked up at her grandfather. Meeting her eyes, Adalgrim nodded sombrely.

"Go on, lass. What else does it say?"

She licked her lips, and shuddered. Then, she continued to read. "I do not know how to write this, but I have no time to dull the blow. I am so sorry. Bilbo volunteered for a mission – a dangerous one – and of course I was to accompany him, with several others. When we did not expect it, Frodo acted upon the lullaby 'The Old Man and His Daughter Fair.' Samwise, Meriadoc, Pimpernel, Peregrin and Bróin went with him. We believe that Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir of Gondor, and Legolas of Mirkwood are with them. We follow on, to whatever end. Pervinca and Bofin travel with us by their consent. We will send more news when we have it. Be safe, and know that I send you all the love my heart can hold. Your Kíli."

For a several moments, no one spoke. The only sound came from the logs that crackled and smouldered in the grate. The smoke was the only thing that breathed. Adalgrim was not entirely sure what all parts of the letter meant, but he knew enough to get the gist. His three most problematic grandchildren had finally done what they had been threatening to do since birth – pull a stunt that would threaten heart-attacks to each of their parents.

"Well," said Esme, her voice hollow. "Shit."

"Shit, indeed," muttered Paladin, before Adalgrim's automatic chiding could even begin.

"Frodo's, he's, they've taken the-" stammered Pearl, but she did not seem capable of stringing together a full sentence. "Gone – if, when, going to get killed!"

Paladin swore again. "Dammit – we've got to go-"

"No," said Esme. At once, her voice was sharp, and firm, and she shook her head slowly. "No, Paladin. What can we do that Kíli cannot? It will do no one good for us to traverse across the world a hundred leagues behind those we chase. We've got to worry about what we _can_ do. The Shire is vulnerable. The children are our priority. Those children, in that bedroom," she pointed towards the three dwarflings, and her voice began to tremble, "and the other bairns in the Shire. Who else is there to protect them? We know little about warfare, I know, but we know a great deal more than most around these parts. We can help, and we've got to. There isn't anything else we can do, so that's what we're going to do. And, we're going to keep Bodin and the twins safe, and we're going to make the Shire safe and we're going to wait for news and we're – excuse me."

Adalgrim hung his head as his daughter covered her mouth with her hand and fled from the room. Saradoc stood, squeezed Pearl's shoulder, and then sighed. He left the kitchen without a word. Seconds later, the sound of wrenching sobs came from the Brandybuck's bedroom. They were muffled by whatever pillow Esme had her face buried in, and by the walls and door, but the sound carried.

"What _are_ we going to do?" Pearl whispered.

"Look at the facts," said Ellie quietly. "We do not know what it is they are doing. I suspect that we all have our theories, but we do not know. All we know is that they are out of our hands. Your Aunt is right, my little flower. We have to look after those we can reach, before we stretch out for your siblings."

Adalgrim stared at his daughter-in-law for a long moment. She was pale as the paper before Pearl, but her eyes were strong.

"Besides," she sighed, "we are all a little tipsy, and upset, and afraid. Now is not the time to make any decisions. Other than one – we do not tell the children. We tell _no one."_

"I think I'd agree with that," said Adalgrim. "Doesn't make much sense to flout it around. But that'll mean being mighty careful, where those kids are concerned."

"We can, we can do that," said Pearl. Then, she stood up, and brushed down her dress. "If I may, I'm going to bed. I will see you all in the morning."

"Goodnight, darling," Adalgrim murmured as she kissed her parents, and then him, and then walked out of the room.

Paladin picked up the paper she left behind, his forehead creasing as he read. His lips moved silently, and he shook his head. "It gives me a headache to read it, but I can't fault Pearl's translation. She's always had a knack for languages, but I've no idea where she gets it from. Thank you, Papa."

Adalgrim blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Thank you," Paladin said again, embracing him tightly for a moment. "For looking after us. I know it makes your life more dangerous-"

"Oh, you cut it out right now. I'm your father, it's what I do," he said, tapping Paladin's cheek twice. "Now, I think we best all be getting to bed. Come on now. We've got an awful lot to think about in the morning, and your mother is not going to like this news one bit."

Ellie gave an empty laugh. "I don't like this news one bit."

"Neither do I lass," sighed Adalgrim. "Neither do I."

When he made it into bed, Adalgrim stared at the ceiling. He was trying very hard to remember his own advice about not worrying about those out of reach, but knowing that three of his own grandchildren were among a group of others that he dearly loved and heading towards some sort of unknown doom made it difficult. He had expected many things to come from 'Baggins Complications' in his lifetime, but he had never expected this.

That said, after all he had seen from his family through the years, Adalgrim Took could not honestly say that he was surprised.

 **And with that, I'm going to bed too. I hope that you enjoyed that Shire interlude, and that you're well :) Thank you very much for reading, please do review if you fancy :D**


	42. Chapter 42: Farewell to Lothlorien

**Hey there! Sorry about the delay, I was really busy this week. With any luck I'll still make tomorrow's update, but I can't promise anything. Anyways, enjoy this one, and as ever, please forgive any typos.**

 **Chapter Forty-Two: Farewell to Lothlórien**

The day after Frodo and Sam looked in the Mirror, the company left Lothlórien. Their hearts were heavy, but each member of the fellowship felt fortified by the time they had spent in the city. Determined, resolute – as though their fear could no longer drag them to despair. Soon after dawn, they rose, and as they began to pack their belongings Celeborn pulled Aragorn aside.

His gaze was as piercing as Galadriel's, and the wisdom in his eyes just as deep. He smiled slightly. "Many sorrows lie ahead of you, son of Arathorn, and many toils. Yet you ought not think of your last visit to our lands with such sorrow. It may yet bring you great joy."

Shock hit Aragorn in the chest, and stunned him into silence. Since the first moment he crossed into Lothlórien, he had been unable to banish memories of his past visit from his mind. He had been young, barely older than twenty, and only a year had passed since he learnt his true name, and his heritage. And, wandering through Lothlórien, he had first seen Arwen Undomiel. From that moment, his heart was no longer his own.

But to know that Celeborn was aware of Aragorn's dwelling on these thoughts was alarming. It felt almost as though he had been stripped naked, and thrust before a jeering crowd. After all, the woman he adored so deeply, the subject of all his most wonderful memories, was Celeborn's granddaughter.

Yet Celeborn had not doomed the couple, nor had he advised Aragorn to forsake his heart, as Elrond had. Celeborn had said it may bring joy…

Aragorn shook his head. "Lady Arwen belongs with your people, my Lord. I would have her go over the sea, and be free of this land."

"That choice is yet before her," said Celeborn sternly, though his eyes still smiled. "But it is her choice, and not yours. She was doomed to choose by her birth, and the bloodline of her father. Not by you."

Only a little hope dared rise in Aragorn's heart, and in a moment he had quieted it once more. It was not his choice, and he knew that. But as strongly as his heart yearned for Arwen, it also wished that she would choose to cross the sea. He had never rued Elrond's reluctance to see Arwen tie herself to him – it would mean that one day, death would sunder the Lord of Rivendell from his daughter.

And Aragorn would rather Arwen live, live long, and live happy. Even if that meant to live without him.

"Heed my words," said Celeborn, taking Aragorn's arm and regaining his attention. "Yet do not dwell on them now. We have more pressing things to discuss."

Aragorn was sure that he had never been so happy to change a subject, until all trace of a smile disappeared from the Lord's face, and his voice became sombre as the night.

"The road before you is more dangerous than ever before. Would that we could protect you further, but once you leave our lands you are beyond our care, and must trust to your own strengths. Yet you must be swift – you are being pursued."

The hair on the back of Aragorn's neck stood up, and he glanced at the others. They were laughing, and apparently enjoying Bróin's first exposure to lembas. He looked back at Celeborn. "Is it the Nine?"

A scowl darkened Celeborn's fair face, and for a moment he was so terrible to behold that even Aragorn was afraid of him. But then the elf shook his head, and the shadows vanished. In their place came a bitter look, one that was mirrored in his tone. "No. We have heard nothing of the Nine, as of yet. Pray it remains so. But orcs have been spied near our borders, larger and more hideous than any we have seen before. They have been clever – or at least have been instructed by someone wiser – for they have not passed into our land, and travel in groups so great that our scouts cannot annihilate them without the help of the guard, who of course must remain along the borders."

Aragorn nodded at once. Though he had no doubt that the power of Celeborn and Galadriel played a great role in the protection of Lothlórien, he shuddered at the thought of any part of the kingdom being left vulnerable to attack.

"But, the scouts do as their duty commands, and the news they bring is useful, if not comforting. They say that these orcs appear unafraid of daylight, and run beneath the sun without care. They are organised, and heavily armoured, and they bear the White Hand of Saruman."

Aragorn's lip curled at the very name of the wizard. What delivery had Saruman performed to engineer such strength in orcs? Without the cover of daylight, the fellowship lost what little advantage they had against their foes, especially if these orcs were heavily armoured.

"Are they trained?" he asked. "In combat?"

"It appears so, though we know not for certain," said Celeborn. "But we know that they are swift. These are, no doubt, the 'uruk-hai' of which Saruman spoke to Radagast. You no longer have wolves or horses, and at their current rate they will run you down before the sun sets tomorrow."

Aragorn grimaced, and looked back at the others. The laughter had died, and Frodo was gazing curiously towards them. "Then what do you suggest?"

"Go by river," said Celeborn at once. "We have prepared you boats, swift and strong, yet light enough to handle with ease. Between you, Legolas and Boromir, there is enough boat knowledge to carry you safely, and by river, you have a chance of outrunning the enemy to the falls of Rauros. What path you take then is up to you. Do you know which it is you will take?"

"No," said Aragorn, and the words tasted bitter in his mouth. ""I am not yet sure. I lean towards the Emyn Muil – treacherous as it may be. That was the path that Gandalf intended to take, so far as I know."

Celeborn nodded slowly. "I will not counsel you either way, but I do not think that the Emyn Muil is the worst of the choices you have before you. Come, the time of departure is close at hand."

When they were told of the plan to take boats, for the most part the fellowship was pleased. Merry, Legolas and Boromir were particularly pleased, having a proclivity for boating and swimming, and they joined Aragorn in thanking the Lord of Lórien many times. Sam, on the other hand, was less than impressed, and grumbled to Frodo beneath his breath, "Sleeping up trees and sitting in boats – they'll be asking us to leap up cliffs like billy goats next!"

An elf heard his words, and turned to Sam. "Calm your heart, Master Halfling. Our boats are unlike the boats of other folk, and they will not sink, no matter how you fill them. It is only if you mistreat them that they shall let harm befall you."

This did not seem to comfort Sam at all.

The elves helped the company to pack the boats, and Aragorn was relieved to see good supplies of food, blankets, medical supplies, and ropes among the luggage. Most of their own baggage had been abandoned before the gates of Moria. Within half an hour they were packed, and had practised boarding and disembarking from the boats. Bróin tried to convince Sam that the boats were no different from the barges and ferries of Lake-Town, but the hobbit was not having it. Before the pair could get into the argument, however, Haldir approached the company.

"The Lord and Lady wish to share a meal with you, before you depart," he said, holding out his arm. "If you will follow me."

No one hesitated, and Haldir led them away from the boats towards a large circle of soft, green grass. A ring of silver-barked mallorn trees grew around it, and their branches stretched overhead to form a canopy of delicate gold. Seated in the centre of the circle were Celeborn and Galadriel, and food and drink was set on crisp white cloths before them.

"Come," said Galadriel gesturing to the ground before her. "Let us sit, and eat, before our paths lead us apart."

So the Fellowship of the Ring sat before the Lord and Lady of the Galadhrim, and ate, and drank, until even the hobbits were sated. Aragorn could not help but notice that while Bróin and Gimli's table manners were far from stellar on the road – or even in Rivendell – both dwarves appeared to be endeavouring to reach elven standards of cleanliness. He even saw Bróin dab the side of his mouth with a napkin.

When Pippin finally put down his knife and fork and pushed his plate away, the real talk began.

"Once again, I offer sanctuary to any who does not wish to proceed from here," said Celeborn. "The road ahead is dark indeed, and any of your company may stay here in peace, if he – or she – does not wish to continue."

A faint smile crossed Galadriel's lips. "They are all resolved to go on."

Though he could not be sure, Aragorn thought that he saw Celeborn smile a little. "Very well. As you go down the water, eventually the tress will fail, and you will come into a barren country where the river flows in a stony vale amidst high moors. After many leagues, you will come to Tol Brandir, and then to the falls of Rauros. Should you wish to travel via Gondor, you would do well to cross the Great River above these falls, and then cross the Entwash and journey into Rohan – though take care not to enter Fangorn. It is a strange land, and little known. But, forsaking the road to Minas Tirith, the more direct road to the black land is indeed through the Emyn Muil."

Boromir's face soured at this, and he glanced at Aragorn. The hobbits shuffled uncomfortably.

"The time has come," said Galadriel softly, rising to her feet with the grace of a swan. The others rose after her, with considerably less elegance. "I have brought with me gifts, so that you may remember your time in Lothlórien."

She signalled to attendants who slipped out of the shadows, and to each member of the company they gave a warm, silken cloak. Aragorn could not name the colour or hue of the fabric, though he thought it shimmered between green and grey.

"It has been long since we clad strangers in the garb of our own people," said Galadriel, as the elves fastened the new cloaks with leaf-shaped broaches. "May these cloaks serve you well in shielding you from unfriendly eyes." Then, she met Aragorn's eyes. "Come forward, son of Arathorn."

Aragorn walked forward, and Galadriel took out a sheath, wrought with flowers and leaves of silver and gold. Galadriel did not need to speak for Aragorn to know that it would fit one sword, and one sword only. Andúril. He bowed low, and took the sheath, and Galadriel smiled sadly. Her hand fell to his chest, above the pendant that hung beneath his clothes. The pendant that Arwen had given him.

"This I gave to my daughter, Celebrían, and she gave it unto hers. Now, it comes to you, as a token of hope," she said, and Aragorn felt his heart lift almost despite itself. "Let you now come into the name that was foretold for you – Elessar, the Elfstone, of the House of Elendil."

Aragorn bowed bow. "Thank you, my Lady."

Next, she called Legolas, to whom she gave a bow longer and stronger than the bows of Mirkwood – a bow such as Aragorn had never seen, and a bow that took Legolas' breath away. To Merry, she gave a sheath for the dagger he had gained in the Barrow Downs, and a silver belt on which to bear it. Its clasp was wrought like a golden flower, and matched that of the belt she gave to Pippin.

Yet also to Pippin, she gave a long elven knife, big enough for the youngest of the hobbits to use as a sword.

"Its name is Tintallë, and it has already seen service in battle," she said, placing the sheathed sword into his hands. Pippin's eyes widened, and he gave a little gasp. His hands closed slowly around the hilt and the sheathed blade, and then he looked down at his toes.

Galadriel smiled warmly. "Do not fear, young Peregrin Took. You will find your courage."

Pippin glanced up, and his mouth dropped open ever so slightly. Aragorn could see hope and adoration and awe kindled in the young hobbit's eyes, and he smiled as Pippin bowed low.

"For you, Samwise Gamgee, I give a most precious gift," she said, pulling out a small, wooden box as the hobbit hurried over. "It seems not much, especially to those who fight and build, but this is soil from my orchard. If your path leads you home, you may sprinkle this earth over any garden, be it barren and bare, and it will bloom like no other on this earth."

Eyes wider than Pippin's, Sam took the little box, and ran his finger over the symbol on the front. "Thank you," he murmured, looking up and smiling shyly at the lady. "Thank you ever so much, my Lady. I'll look after it always, thank you. Thank you." He bowed twice, three times, and then hurried back to stand by Frodo, unable to prevent himself from beaming ear to ear.

"Next, for Miss Pimpernel Took," she said, and Nelly stepped forward. She raised her eyes to the lady, and gave a curtsey. Galadriel smiled. "I give you this…" She handed Nelly something that looked to Aragorn very much like a leather corset with shoulders, embroidered with silver flowers. "This bodice was made by my maidens and I. As an armour, it is effective as the finest mail, but it is lighter, and allows more room for movement. It should be more than sufficient to cover your shoulders."

Nelly touched at her shoulder, and then took the bodice with awe in her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured. "Thank you…"

Next, the lady called Boromir forward, and presented him with a golden belt. It had many pockets, and loops and ties, and could be used to store or hold a great many things. For a long moment, she held him in her gaze, and then bowed her head, and he strode back to take his place beside Aragorn, running his fingers over his new belt.

"Bróin, son of Bombur," said Galadriel, and the young dwarf swallowed, and then stepped forwards. "To you, I give two gifts. First, I give you the news that your brother, Bofin, is doing well, and Lord Glorfindel is certain that he will survive. Second, I give you this," She passed over a small, silver whistle on a thin chain, "that you may call for help, if ever you need it."

Bróin bowed, and thanked her, and returned to his place.

"Yet I know not what to grant you, Gimli, son of Glóin," said Galadriel. "What gift would you ask of the elves?"

"Nothing, my lady," said Gimli, raising his eyes slowly to meet hers. "For me it is enough that I've seen the Lady of the Galadhrim, and looked upon she who is fairer than the gems of the earth and the stars of the sky."

A few of the elves stirred, but Galadriel smiled. "Let none again say that dwarves are greedy and ungracious," she said. "But there must be something you desire that I might give to you, and I bid you to name it. You should not be the only guest without a gift."

"There is nothing, Lady Galadriel," said Gimli, and then his face grew very red. "Except, perhaps, if you truly wish for me to ask, I might say that I would wish for a single strand of your hair, for it has a beauty that nothing on this here earth could rival. But I do not ask for such a gift – I name it only as you commanded me to."

Aragorn thought he saw wonder even in the eyes of Celeborn, and the stirring of the elves broke into free murmurs of astonishment. But Galadriel's smile grew, and she cut three golden hairs from her head, and lay them in Gimli's hand.

"With this gift will go these words," she said gently. "Should hope not fail, your hands shall flow with gold, and yet gold shall have no dominion over you."

Gimli bowed so low that his beard stroked the ground.

"Finally, I come to you, Ring-bearer," the lady said, turning to Frodo. Aragorn's breath caught in his throat as she drew out a crystal phial that gave out rays of white light. "To you, Frodo Baggins, I give the light of Eärendil, our most beloved star, caught with the waters of my mirror. May it be a light for you in dark places, where all other lights go out."

Frodo's mouth dropped open, and he slowly took the phial from her hands. "Thank you, my Lady. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

She smiled, and tucked Frodo's hair behind his ear. The hobbit went bright red, and bowed low. Then, Galadriel straightened, and Frodo retreated back to the line.

"The time has come," she said sadly, gesturing to the boats.

Aragorn thanked Celeborn and Galadriel several more times, and then joined the others in boarding the boats. There were three boats in total, so they split up as best they could. Aragorn took Frodo and Sam in the front of his boat, Legolas took Gimli and Bróin, and Boromir rode with Merry, Pippin and Nelly in the third, a boat that was slightly larger than the others.

Celeborn and Galadriel stood upon the bank as the boats pushed off.

"May the light of the Valar guide and protect you," said Celeborn, and he bowed his head.

Galadriel held up her hand. "Farewell."

And within minutes, the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien were out of sight.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I'm really, really excited about the next few, and I hope that they'll be up fairly soon. Please let me know what you think.**


	43. Chapter 43: Around the River Bend

**Sorry about not updating yesterday – the site was down, or at least it was for me. As ever, please forgive any mistakes, and I hope that you enjoy the writing.**

 **Chapter Forty-Three: Around the Riverbend**

When night fell, they steered their boats towards the bank. There were no helpful beaches around, nor anywhere that seemed to be a particularly good place to moor, so they rowed as close to the bank as possible and tied the boats to some nearby willow trees. Here, it seemed, the Great River was just as deep at the edges as it was in the middle.

As such, they had to jump ashore. This was much easier said than it was done for everyone other than Legolas. The elf leapt to the bank as nimbly as if he was strolling up a staircase, and his steps hardly rocked the boat at all. However, when Gimli stepped up, the boat swayed, and he grabbed Bróin's head to keep his footing.

Then, he tossed himself into the air, and onto the bank. Bróin went next, as soon as the boat had steadied, and then Aragorn and Boromir both sprang to shore. Which left only the hobbits.

"I could come back, if you'd like me to carry you," offered Boromir with a smirk, to which Sam waggled his finger.

"Now, now, Master Boromir, don't you be giving any cheek. We'll get out in our own time, thank you very much. Hobbits aren't built for boating, after all!"

"Well, that's a load of Hobbiton poppycock," said Merry, grinning at Sam's disgruntled glare. "We Brandybucks are very fond of boats."

With that, Merry stood up slowly. He could feel the boat swaying, but he bent his knees and moved with the water. Then, he put a foot on the side of the boat – he let it settle – moved his weight forward and –

Pippin sneezed, and grabbed at the side of the boat. It jerked backwards and Merry fell face first into the Anduin. It was cold as all of winter, but Merry could not help himself. Almost before he broke the surface, he was laughing.

"Pippin, you oaf!" he cried, splashing his cousin and making both Pippin and Nelly shriek.

"You dirty great troll, Merry, I didn't push you!" protested Nelly, leaning over the edge of the boat to splash him back. Then, she grabbed Pippin's head as Gimli had Bróin's, and vaulted right over Merry and onto the shore. Merry grinned and swam the short distance to the bank. Before he could clamber up, Boromir had reached down and dragged him up by the collar.

"C'mon, go change into some dry clothes. I've seen you catch the cold before, I don't want to see it again!"

Raising his eyebrows, Merry laughed. "You sound like my Grandma Menegilda."

"Oh, you do!" gasped Nelly gleefully. "Still, he's right Merry. Put some clothes on."

" _You_ sound like my mother," he said.

Nelly grinned and tossed her hair over her shoulder. "I take that as a compliment."

Merry grinned. She should feel flattered – though he would not say that aloud. And he did have Pippin throw across his pack, so that he could fish out some new clothes. Miraculously, Merry was the only one to fall in, so before too long they were all sitting in front of a decent fire. The land was not yet too barren to make a campfire dangerous, and Merry was grateful. Beneath his dry clothes he still felt rather cold, and he wondered how long it would take his other clothing to dry. It was hung over a nearby branch, close enough to the fire to claim some of the heat, but winter was upon them, and the nights grew very cold.

They chatted to each other here and there as Sam went about preparing the dinner. Merry had worried that the peace they had shared in Lórien would leave greater fear in its absence, but that did not seem to be the case. If he sat back, he could quite easily imagine that this was just a camping excursion among friends – that the river was chosen just to spite Pippin and Sam, and that their nights beneath the open sky were for stargazing.

By the time hot food reached Merry's belly, he was perfectly warm again. Out of curiosity, he checked his clothes, and found that while his shirt, trousers, waistcoat and jacket were still sodden, his elven cloak was all but dry.

 _Well,_ he thought, _count me impressed._

When their meal had ended, Nelly sighed, standing up and stretching towards the sky. "I'll see you boys in a minute."

She disappeared into the brush. No one thought much of this. She was a girl, after all, and needed more privacy then they did for relieving herself and – well – for _other_ things girls needed privacy for. Merry was not sure how Nelly coped, to be honest, but he did not really want to think into it too deeply, and he was sure that Nelly had it handled. Like the others, he was content with understanding that a couple of times a day Nelly would disappear, and would be armed and within shouting distance, and that she would be back soon.

Today, when Nelly returned, she was wearing the bodice that Galadriel had given her over her undershirt. She had not put her tunic back on – it hung over her arm – but she hardly looked indecent. The bodice mirrored one that a hobbit lady might wear attached to her skirts, though it was longer, and flared out to cover her hips with folded fabric that would allow for movement. It also covered the entirety of her back, right up to the base of her neck. It reminded Merry of a vest in the way that it had arm holes, but no sleeves, and secured in the front, though it was tied with laces, as opposed to buttons.

Merry supposed that it must have been made just for Nelly, though he could not fathom how it could have been made in the brief time they had spent in Lórien. Not only did it seem to fit her like a glove, but it bore none of the peeves that she complained of in other clothing. By having it lace at the front rather than the back, Nelly was able to put it on without any assistance, and the decoration was beautiful without getting in the way of its function.

Furthermore, Nelly famously loathed anything that came too close to her neck, even if it were armour or chainmail, because she said it felt like she was being strangled. Pearl often wondered aloud how her sister could wear scarves in that case, but Nelly was adamant that it was different. The collar of the elven gift was not too high, being a hands width or so down from her collarbone, so she could breathe easily without leaving her breast vulnerable.

It was beautiful and, and modest enough that she could wear it above her underclothes without being indecent by the standards of both hobbits and dwarves.

Of course, Pippin felt duty bound to ignore this last fact, and he let out a low whistle. "You best be pleased that Papa's not here, walking around like that."

Alarmed, Boromir looked at Pippin quickly, and Merry smirked. The man had learnt his lesson about irking Nelly. But Merry knew there was no need to panic when Nelly screwed up her nose and stuck out her tongue. "The Valar forbid I wear less than three layers. And a bodice is not necessarily underwear, Pippin. You'd know that if you had ever been with a woman."

Sam spit out his tea and Boromir, Bróin and Gimli roared with laughter. Frodo shook his head with a fond (though rather exasperated) smile, and Merry chuckled.

Pippin went red as a tomato, but drew up his chin. "I'm going to ignore that comment like the gentleman my parents raised me to be."

Nelly snorted. "Gentleman? Don't make me laugh, Pippin. You need poise to be a gentleman, and class. You, little brother, have neither."

"At least I don't prance around in front of ladies in my underwear."

"I told you, this isn't underwear."

"Technically you said that bodices aren't 'necessarily' underwear. You didn't say anything about that one being outerwear. Put your tunic back on."

"Put your brains back on," retorted Nelly. "Oh wait, you never had any."

"Oh, that was a weak one," commented Pippin, his eyes twinkling.

She paused, and then shrugged. "Fair."

Pippin smiled. "Looks Nice, Nell."

She swatted the back of his head and grinned. "Ta."

"How's it for dexterity?" asked Bróin curiously.

Rather than replying, Nelly bent over backwards until her hands met the ground behind her, and her body was arched in a curve as perfect as a round shield. She paused a moment, took a deep breath, and kicked her legs up over her head to land on her feet. Then, she sat down cross legged beside the young dwarf, and bent down until her nose tickled the ground.

Bróin snorted, and bumped into her with his shoulder. "Show off."

It was not long afterwards that they turned in for the night, and as he tucked his cloak up to his chin, Merry wished that this could last for a while. The easy comradery, the laughing and joking. He knew that it was not likely to, that where they were going laughter would not help them, but he was sure that it would not hurt. Since Moria, he had noticed shadows in his cousin's eyes, and noticed that Frodo often shifted the ring's chain as if it hurt him. Merry could see that Frodo found things easier when everyone was smiling.

But as the days on the river passed, the land grew barren, and the laughter dwindled to smiles, which then faded into frowns. Spending hours upon end cramped in a boat watching nothingness go by, with nothing but the journey of the sun to count the time that passed – it was hardly an incubator for fair tempers.

No one wanted to bring up the subject of the path, but by the fourth night there was nowhere else for the conversation to turn.

"I think we should take the road to Minas Tirith," said Boromir strongly. "It makes much more sense – we can replenish our supplies, rest a while, and enter Mordor with fresh vigour."

"And you can see if your people need you to stay there," said Pippin, munching on an apple. The others had mostly finished their meals and were sipping on hot tea given by the elves. "You won't say it, but that's what you're thinking."

Boromir's cheeks grew rather pink, but he bowed his head. "I will admit that it has passed my mind. I would like to see how my city fares. But as I have always said, if I can help you, Frodo, I will."

"But the path across Rohan to Minas Tirith is long," argued Aragorn. "And Gondor is already embroiled in war. No doubt the city is being watched, and closely. Even nearing Minas Tirith will take us too close to the front line."

"Yet the alternative is the Emyn Muil," protested Boromir, "and that path is equally dangerous, if not more so. Assuming that we can climb through and navigate a labyrinth of razor sharp rocks, we will face no relief once we get out – we will be in the Dead Marshes. There is no path through that place, and the road around is frequented by orcs. There is no food, and little drinkable water there – and there is less in Mordor. We will enter the Black Land with meagre supplies, and by the time we reach Mount Doom there will be nothing left."

Merry winced at the thought of starving in a hot, dusty land, and the others seemed to share the sentiment, but Legolas did not look convinced, and neither did Aragorn.

"I would risk a few orcs before I risked being spied by an army," Aragorn said. "I do not think that Minas Tirith is the safest road."

"Then it is clear," said Boromir, his face darkening as he glared at Aragorn. "You do not trust me."

"I never said that." Aragorn's voice was calm and cool as the Long Lake, and Merry's stomach curled. He did not have a good feeling about this. "But I do think that you still desire to use the ring as a weapon."

"Only to defend my people!" protested Boromir. "You – _you_ do not know what it is like to have the prayers of a city on your shoulders, to know that if you make a wrong move you could bring death to thousands of innocent people! You do not know how it feels to watch your home being chipped away, bit by bit, by forces you do not have the means to combat."

"Do I not?" said Aragorn dangerously. "I would not speak of your life as if I knew it better than you do – I would appreciate the same curtesy."

"And what would you even do with it?" asked Pippin, tossing away his apple core, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows. "You say use it – how? It's not a sword or a bow? Can it make you shoot fire from your hands, or control peoples' minds, and if it can, do you know how to use it? Or would you just throw it at the orcs and hope it clonked one on the head hard enough to knock it out?"

Wondering if it were possible to die from exasperation, Merry dropped his head into his hands, catching Boromir's expression as he did. The man looked both angry and incredulous, but the overwhelming look was one of bafflement.

"What does it actually do?" continued Pippin, as if he was discussing the weather. "Perhaps Frodo should try it on and see."

The atmosphere changed in a violent flash, from distrusting and frustrated to tense, and silent. Frodo went very pale, and put his cup down on the ground before him.

"I think Frodo should not," he said quietly. "You don't know what you're talking about, Pippin. I have not used it, and I mean for it to stay that way." He turned his gaze to Boromir, who was as red as Frodo was white. "I think you are misguided. We cannot wield it – so say all the wise. I have made my decision – I will take the path of the Emyn Muil. You all may join me as you will."

Boromir swore, and threw down his own cup. "Do you really trust me so little?"

"I trust you," replied Frodo, his voice strong as a king's – as Thorin's. "Truly, Boromir, I do. You are my friend, and I know that your spirit is strong. But there will be men in Gondor of lesser strength and honour than you, and them I do not trust. Nor do I trust to the path that is more likely to be watched, and already in a state of open war. It would not surprise me if the Dark Lord expects us to take it to Minas Tirith, or Erebor, or some place of such strength. If we are to keep the advantage that stealth will lend us, the thornier road is all the safer. If this means you must leave us, and attend to matters in your own lands, my blessing will go with you. I will take the first watch, Sam shall watch with me. The rest of you should get some sleep."

At no point did Frodo raise his voice or speak harshly, but authority rang from him stronger than any Merry had heard from his cousin before. A silence fell after Frodo's words, a silence not even Pippin was willing to break, and Merry knew then that their path was set in stone. In the sharp, coarse stone of the Emyn Muil. He himself had been leaning towards Gondor – he thought of their supplies, of finding food for themselves in the darkest realms of their enemy – but Frodo had said no, so that path was gone now.

He glanced at Boromir. The man's shoulders were hunched and his jaw clenched, but it was sorrow, not anger, that dominated his eyes.

"Very well," said the man. "I will see you all come morning." And then he stood, and set out his bedroll, and closed his eyes on them all. It had to be hard, Merry thought. The choice that was put upon Boromir was not an easy one, and he knew that the man's concern for Minas Tirith was growing by the day.

There was no more talk that night. Merry nodded at Frodo, offered him as good a smile as he could conjure, and went straight to bed. Pippin curled up beside him, his back pressed against Merry's, and he did not say a word. Out of the corner of his eye, Merry thought that he saw Nelly and Bróin passing signs in Iglishmêk to each other, but if they were they were only ones to converse.

Sighing sadly, Merry cast his mind back to the joy of earlier days and past times, but his thought kept wandering back to Frodo. When had Frodo become a leader, taken charge? When had he learnt to speak in a voice so strong – so calm and even, yet so firm and unyielding? As he drifted slowly to sleep, Merry realised that he had never heard that voice from Frodo before. But he had heard it.

He had heard if from Bilbo.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, apologies in the delay! I hope to get back to schedule next week, so finger's crossed! There, we shall check in with Glóin, and with Bilbo's group, before returning to reach the falls of Rauros – I hope you guys are as excited as I am! Please let me know what you thought of this chapter, or what you hope to see ahead, I'm really eager to hear your feedback.**

 **Thank you for reading – take care!**


	44. Chapter 44: A Foxy Messenger

**Here we are, back on track! I hope that you enjoy this one, as ever, please forgive any typos.**

 **EDIT: we would have been back on track if I had not been exhausted and forgotten to actually update the chapter, rather than just uploading it to docs , hahaha! Sorry about that.**

 **Chapter Forty-Four: A Foxy Messenger**

For a moment, Glóin wondered if it was simply the dark that was cloaking his vision, but when he squinted at the pony lying before him, he could make out the beast's eyes glinting in the faint light of the stars. His sight was strong as ever. He peered around the small cavern, but Lani was not there.

Sighing, Glóin propped himself up and stared straight at the pony. The pony stared back.

"Where did she go?" asked Glóin, gruffly. His voice felt a little raw, and he massaged his throat.

Odo just blinked.

Glóin tilted his head and listened intently. The wind was whispering through the caves and rocks of the mountainside, but it carried no other sound with it. No birds, no beasts, no people. No sound of rivers or rain, no sound of trees creaking or leaves rustling. There was nothing but the wind.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and Glóin shivered. He wanted to call to Lani, but the quiet was too dangerous to break. He could not afford to give his position away, if he was not alone. So instead, he turned his attention to his arm. It was throbbing.

Gingerly, he untied the bandage, and slowly unwound it. The change in pressure sent a spasm of pain straight up his arm, and he gritted his teeth. The wound was angry and red, and his blood had blackened where it dried, but somehow, miraculously, there was no sign of gangrene or infection.

"Thank you, Mahal, for the fortitude you gave us," he murmured, closing his eyes. "For the strength of our blood. Thank you."

Escaping infection was not uncommon among dwarves, particularly those who were strong and healthy, but Glóin's luck had been so bad for so long that he had half been expecting to see luminous green skin. He wished that he had something else to bind it with – he would even take a once-worn sock at this point – but his own socks smelt worse than his feet. So, back went the old bandage, and he tightened the knot with his teeth.

As he did so, there came a sound. A soft, familiar tapping – the sound of wolf claws against stone. He looked up, and put a hand on his axe. Glóin wondered if it was a strange wolf, or if Lani was running – her footsteps were faster than usual. Odo's head tossed back, but other than that, the pony did not move.

Then, Lani came around the corner, her limp more pronounced than ever. But her eyes were sparkling as though they held the light of a thousand stars, and her mouth hung open in what Glóin could have sworn was a smile. Behind her, trotted a small, red fox, with uncommonly large ears, and big, brown eyes.

Lani fumbled her way over to Glóin and collapsed at his side, panting. She laid her head in his lap again and rubbed it against his leg, looking very pleased with herself. He gave her rump a pat, and looked back at the fox.

"What's this?" he asked gruffly. "Friend of yours?"

It stopped before Glóin and sat down, its tail curling around it, and then it tilted its head to the side. Glóin had the odd feeling that he was being examined.

By a fox.

Lani whined softly, blinking up at him. Glóin thought of the stories that Bilbo would tell the younger children, tales of boys and girls with animal companions, folk who could befriend birds by singing and lived in harmony with the woods. Rather disgruntled, Glóin wondered if he should just put on a flower crown now.

Then the fox moved.

It arched its back, further and further until it was not just stretching, but _growing,_ and doubling, tripling in size, and getting bigger –

Glóin grabbed for his axe as the creature's hair began to retreat into its skin, but Lani whined, and put her muzzle over his hand. Frozen, Glóin stared at the fox's shifting form, at the sickening ripple of its muscles and limbs that grew and twisted shape into something – some _one_ completely different.

A woman.

A hobbit-sized, red-haired, utterly naked woman.

Swallowing, Glóin shut his open mouth and did everything that he could to look at her face. And only her face. Nothing but her face – but she kept twitching! She scratched at her big, pointed ears, and leant forward and back, and rocked on her heels and moved her entire torso as she looked around.

Glóin was not what one would call an overly sensitive dwarf, nor was he over-fond of courtly manners, but he had been raised to know the ins and the outs of etiquette, both dwarven and inter-racial. Here, however, he had no idea what he was supposed to do.

What on earth was the protocol for such a situation? What did manners mean when an animal transformed into a naked woman before you? And how the devil was he going to tell his wife about this?

Glóin cleared his throat. It took two attempts. "Hello. Who are you?"

"I am Inni." Her voice was rather high, but not unpleasantly so, and it lilted and jolted in a manner that reminded him of Beorn. "Who are you?"

"Glóin, son of Groin," he said slowly. His instinct was to look her up and down, to check for weapons, but that would be very indecent of him. Then again, he could hardly let propriety send him to an early grave. He glanced down, quickly, but saw no armaments, or indeed anywhere that she could stow them. Long, red hair hung from her head, but it was free and unbound, and was too sleek to hide anything bigger than a bread knife. His cheeks burning, Glóin looked back at her face. "What are you doing here?"

"I am kin of Beorn, and he sent me," she said, sniffing at the air. "I am a scout. Black things creep around our lands and we must watch them. I am to watch the mountains. Only black things dwell here now – I did not expect to meet friends. Lani says you are in trouble."

"Well, you could argue that," said Glóin, glaring at the wolf. Lani yawned in his face. She looked utterly unbothered that she had relayed their vulnerability to a total stranger. "You don't happen to have any medicine, herbal cleansers, or the like, do you?"

She laughed, a high, yap like sound, and gestured to her body. "Do you see any pockets, Dwarf Glóin?"

Glóin's face burnt, and he glanced down for a moment, before snapping his eyes closed. "No, no pockets."

Her voice took on a tone of concern. "Is everything alright?"

"Fine, fine, everything's fine!" he said, hastily.

"But you have closed your eyes?"

Glóin snorted. "Aye. You have no clothes on."

There was a pause. "And...?"

"Where I come from, it's impolite to stare at a naked woman."

"Really?" Inni sounded intrigued. "How strange! But stare all you like, Dwarf Glóin. I am not offended."

"My wife will be," said Glóin, though he opened his eyes. She was leaning towards him, though ever her body was moving. She seemed utterly incapable of staying still. Glóin kept his gaze fixed on her face, and she tilted her head again.

"Why will she?"

For a moment, Glóin could not speak. He had experienced culture clashes before, of course, and he thought there had been some big ones, like the time when Vinca accidentally proposed to a visiting Ironfist princess by giving her a bouquet of flowers, or when Dori nearly started a war with Lake-Town by insulting their fish. But never, ever, had he experienced anything quite like this. Why, even _elves_ knew that free nudity around strangers was improper!

"Mahal save me," he muttered.

"Is Mahal your wife?"

"No, no! Never mind!" Glóin tugged at his beard. Then, he took a deep breath, and glanced at Lani. "What's your plan here?"

She looked at Inni, and then back to Glóin.

He shook his head. "You're going to have to be clearer, wolf."

Lani raised her head and huffed, then threw in an indignant growl for good measure. Then, she made several noises and twitched her nose, and Inni growled back. It was not a noise of anger, but of communication, and rather disconcerting to hear it coming from what seemed to be the face of a woman. Then, she nodded.

"Yes, yes. I thought so. I will take your message, Dwarf Glóin," she said easily. "I will take news to your home. You may continue over the mountains, find your kin, and your cub."

Glóin hesitated. This woman – she claimed to be kin of Beorn, yet all he had to corroborate this was the judgement of a fluffy, oversized dog. But he did not have much of a choice, and time was pressing. "Very well," he said, drawing a pencil and a sheet of paper from one of his pockets. Hastily, he jotted out the message in Khuzdul, encoding it as best he could. Then, he drew out his spare coin purse, emptied the coins into another pocket, and tucked his message inside. His fingers shook as he tied the strings to seal it shut. Then, he took a deep breath, and handed it to Inni.

She took a step toward him and stared at the purse, but did not take it. "Have you a, or some string?" she said. "I can hang such things from my neck, without losing them when I change. And the form of a fox is much safer than that of a woman in such times."

"Of course." Glóin felt around in his pockets, but all his rope and string had been in his bags. Glóin sighed, and reached into his hair. A ribbon was woven into one of his braids, a token from Dana, for the journey. He unwound the braid, and his fingers seemed to protest pulling the silk ribbon away, but he shook the foolishness from his head.

"Here," he said gruffly, and she took both the ribbon and the purse. With nimble fingers, she hung the message from her neck, the ribbon sitting red against her skin. An image of severed heads barged into Glóin's mind, and he hid a wince.

"Stay here," she said, unaffected. "I will return ere the hour ends. Wait for me."

Before Glóin could say another word, she shrank down into the form of a fox, the unnatural writhing and shrinking of her limbs upsetting Glóin's stomach. She shook her head, and the pouch around her neck swung a little. Then, she bounded off, disappearing quickly behind the rocks. Glóin's hand tightened around the hilt of his axe again.

"I don't like this," he muttered to Lani. "What if it's a trap?"

Lani whined indignantly, and Glóin looked away. He wished that there was someone he could really talk to, someone he knew and trusted – someone that could talk back. Being alone may have protected him, but it was beginning to drive him insane. He had no idea why or how Beorn managed it – although, that said, Beorn was hardly one that you would consider to be of perfectly sound mind.

He wished that Dana was here. After the hell of her journey to Erebor, after Gimli being kidnapped and lost, he had sworn to never leave her again, unless there were lives at stake. It had been upon her insistence that he added that term. And it had been Dana who had insisted that Glóin was the one to go to Rivendell. It was their duty, she said, and Glóin knew she spoke the truth. Their kin and lords and lady were out there, and their son was caught in the darkness. Yet Dana was not as skilled a warrior as Glóin, nor did she know as much about travel, or the paths that would need to be taken. And as a woman, should she travel alone she would stick out like a footless hobbit.

He was glad that she was safe, but he almost wished that she was here with him. That he could talk to her, that she could talk _back,_ and tug at his earlobe for looking at a naked fox-lady, and laugh at his worrying about it in the first place, because really, what else could he have done?

Glóin sighed, and rested his head against the stone behind him. Dana was not here, nor should she be. There was no one to talk back to him. He let himself sink into his memories, and lingered in the very best of them. Playing with his brother, the faces of his childhood friends, meeting Dana for the first time…

He was just remembering Gimli's birth, and his little boy's first cry, when Lani's head lifted up. A few seconds later, the quiet tap of claws on stone, and then he saw a fox come around the corner, carrying a sack the same size as itself in its mouth. Inni had returned.

She dropped the sack, and morphed back into the form of a woman. This time, Glóin was almost able to hide his wince.

"Here," she said happily, opening the sack to reveal a hoard of roots and vegetables, and a bundle of fresh, green grass, lashed together with a bit of string. "There is little to eat in these mountains – the orcs scare the animals away, and there are no more trees. This is my cache, foods I brought up here and gathered myself. But I must go now, and take your message, and I cannot take them with me. They will rot ere I return. The Ever Grass is for Lani, from the garden of Beorn. It will chase away both pain and infection, but does not sit well on the stomachs of the two-legged. Alas, that I have no medicine for you, but as a fox I would need only Ever Grass. Farewell, dwarf Glóin. Take care."

She leant down and tapped him once on the forehead, before turning back into a fox, nuzzling Lani's face, and running away before the dwarf could say so much as a word. Stunned, he looked from Lani to Odo, to the food. Lani snuffled at the grass, and immediately took it in her mouth and began to munch away.

"You look like a sheep," he said.

She ignored him.

Glóin looked back at the bag, and tossed a carrot at Odo. The pony chomped down eagerly, and a smile twitched at Glóin's cheek.

"Well," he said gruffly, picking up a potato the size of his forearm. "Perhaps having animal companions can be a good thing after all…"

 **I hope that you enjoyed that little chapter, I know it's just a wee one! When I am working weekends, Monday chapters will probably be shorter due to necessity, but they will always be ones that I feel stand on their own two feet :) Please do let me know what you think, and I hope you have an awesome evening/day :D Thanks for reading!**


	45. Chapter 45: The Falls of Rauros

**Good afternoon! I'm sorry for not updating on Friday, but I am getting to a point with other business where it is rather difficult to produce two good quality chapters per week without neglecting other duties. Therefore from now on, I'm going to set Monday as my sole update day. I might pop other chapters up midweek if I am particularly productive, but I just need to rearrange my balance on things. I hope this is okay for you all, and that you enjoy this chapter :)**

 **As ever, please forgive any of my silly typos.**

 **Chapter Forty-Five: The Falls of Rauros**

Frodo felt as though the eyes of a thousand people were boring into him.

He felt exposed, he felt watched – as though his every move was being scrutinised and dissected by an audience with the eyesight of elves. As though he had been thrown onstage before the kingdom of Erebor, with but half a song prepared, with a tune, but no lyrics.

In giving an ultimatum on their path, and choosing his road the way he did, Frodo had stepped towards the role of leader – a role that they had ever ignored, and pretended to have no need for. And they had not needed it at first, but as Frodo watched the tensions rise, and heard the ring whisper lies and false promises deep into the night, he had known that a decision had to be made.

He had seen the dissatisfaction of Boromir growing, and watched the suspicion of Aragorn rise to meet it. He had caught the sidelong glances shared between Nelly and Bróin as they debated paths in Iglishmêk, and failed to come to any conclusion. He had seen Merry become more sombre, and Pippin grow quieter, and he had seen the bickering begin. And as Frodo watched, the ring laughed. Something had to be done.

And so he had done it.

It had not been completely spur of the moment – he _had_ been leaning towards the Emyn Muil, but the glint in Boromir's eye had finalised Frodo's decision. It was a glint that flickered, and quickly died, but one that was growing more frequent as time progressed. It was a spark that was quickly followed by a shake of the head, and a frown, a spark that he doubted the others had even noticed. That night, Frodo had seen it twice.

It was a glint that Frodo thought he could recognise.

Gold lust.

The thought of it frightened him almost as much as the Nazgûl did, and had done since he entered his tweens. Since Bilbo let slip that Thorin had fallen ill between the death of Smaug and the battle of the Five Armies. Curious, Frodo had asked what happened, but Bilbo said only the words 'Gold sickness,' his face turned cold, and he refused to say anymore. Kíli and Fíli gave only fleeting descriptions of an obsession with shiny things, and so Frodo had gone to Thorin himself. At first, Thorin had not wanted to tell him, either.

 _"It can't have been that bad!" protested Frodo, staring up at the king, who had a face like thunder._

 _"It was very bad, Frodo," he said. Despite his expression, Thorin's voice was nothing like thunder – it was soft and sad, like rain falling on a sunless land. "Why do you want to know of it?"_

 _For a moment, Frodo paused to think about that. Then, he nodded. "I want to know why Uncle Bilbo is so afraid. If it could happen again."_

 _"It could not," Thorin said sharply, and then he sighed, sitting down in his armchair. He gestured to his lap, and Frodo grinned, rolling his eyes._

 _"Uncle, I'm twenty years old!"_

 _"Very well," Thorin said, with no trace of a smile, nodding instead at the soft rug at the foot of his hair. Half-wishing that Thorin had insisted so he could get away with a cuddle, Frodo sat down cross legged, and waited._

 _"The Gold Sickness brings nothing but evil, Frodo. It twists your mind the way that other diseases poison your body. It whispers lies to you, in your thoughts while you are awake and in dreams when you sleep. It disguises itself as your own voice, and it eats away at reason, so slowly that you would not notice it."_

 _Frodo felt a shiver run down his spine, and he shifted to lock his arms around his legs. Thorin sighed, and shook his head. He stared at the fire, and did not met Frodo's eyes._

 _"What starts as a healthy love of beauty and craftsmanship mutates into obsession, and it grows, feeding on your heart like a great spider draining your lifeblood drop by drop, and still you do not see. You've been blinded, blinded so that you do not even flinch when you realise that the value of gold eclipses the value of blood. And you_ will _believe that, Frodo. That a man, that hundreds of men, thousands, might die to protect your hoard, and it would not be a great loss. To lose a soldier is pittance, but to lose a copper penny is a blow that can hardly be fathomed. And all of this, Frodo, I believed. Yet that is not the worst of it. For those that you love…" Thorin glanced at Frodo, and then cut off entirely, closing his eyes and shaking his head._

 _Frodo swallowed, and his brow furrowed. He waited, but Thorin did not speak, and he did not open his eyes. For almost a full minute, he barely moved, and Frodo cleared his throat._

 _"Uncle Thorin?"_

 _Thorin's eyelids dragged open slowly, and he looked at Frodo. He sighed, heavily. "I think, Frodo, that there is a reason your Uncle does not want me to tell you this."_

 _"He never said he didn't want you to tell me," said Frodo, though his voice sounded small, and almost whiny. "Just that he would not tell me himself."_

 _For a long moment, Thorin said nothing. Then, he slowly continued, as though he had not broken off at all._

 _"Those you love become like your possessions. You mistake it for love, because still you wish to keep them safe and close, but it is because you feel you own them. Anything they may do to irk you or embarrass you or anger you becomes a fault you must beat out of them. You do not love them, but the shell of them, and what glory they might bring you, and this 'love' grows so strong you begin to suffocate them. Those you did not love before become nothing, or less than nothing. When I… fell, to the foil of my fathers, Fíli and Kíli were but treasure to me – lifeless gems to embed in a crown. And Bilbo – in my eyes, was a threat." The sorrow in Thorin's eyes was rivalled only by the bitterness in his voice. "A threat, whose life was worth less than a tin cup. I banished him, Frodo. He was wise enough to treaty with the elves, and I accused him of trading Kíli to Thranduil in return for arms. I exiled him from Erebor on pain of death, I ordered Kíli to choose between Erebor and the Shire, demanded that he sunder himself from either dwarves or hobbits. He was so afraid, Frodo, and I did not care to see it. Instead I threatened him, I humiliated him, I hurt him more deeply than an arrow would have… If I did not think that Bilbo had 'bewitched' him, I – I would have attacked Bilbo, Frodo. I would have drawn my sword – the Gold Sickness is so bad, Frodo, that had I died in that battle, I would have fully deserved it."_

 _Frodo felt very cold. He understood, now, why Bilbo had not wanted him to know. To just_ imagine _Thorin,_ his _Uncle Thorin, doing such things, saying such things – to imagine him trying to hurt Bilbo – it was unfathomable, and terrifying._

 _Slowly, his lips parted, and Frodo was able to speak. "But… you beat it, didn't you? You beat the sickness?"_

 _Thorin nodded slowly. He did not look proud. "I did. But I never should have fallen in the first place."_

 _Frodo did not reply to that. Instead, he stood up, and wrapped his arms around Thorin. "I'm glad that you beat it. And that you didn't die in the battle."_

 _Thorin stood up, enveloping Frodo in a hug and resting his chin on the young hobbit's curly head. "Me too, my lad. Me too."_

Later, Bilbo admitted that he did not want Frodo to know of Thorin's madness because he did not want his young nephew to see the king any differently.

"You are close, and it warms my heart to see it," he had said one day. "I would hate for the past to take that away from you."

But it was not Thorin that Frodo came to hate and to fear – it was the sickness itself, an affliction so powerful that it could turn the great Thorin Oakenshield against his kin.

An affliction that he feared was trying to take root in the mind of Boromir. It was not strong – of that Frodo was sure, and he was also certain that the man could beat it. Thorin had, after all. But going into the land of Men less strong and less noble alarmed him. If the worst happened, and Boromir fell as Thorin had, at least Frodo had the others, and strength in numbers.

But Boromir would not fall, he would not betray them. Frodo was sure that he would not.

This was a man they had played with as children, a man they had laughed with and fooled around with as adults. A man who had proved himself a friend, and a true friend at that. He would not betray them

 _Or do you just hope he will not?_ a cruel, cold voice whispered in his mind. _Trust is for fools, and he will betray you. They will all betray you, and you too will fall._

 _Shut_ up! Frodo thought back fiercely, dropping his head into his hands. His fingers wound around his hair and pulled, tightly, and he tried to think of something else. Of anything else.

But it was hard. Because there was nothing for him to do but sit in a boat before Aragorn and Sam.

No one was talking.

Frodo did not regret putting his foot down, but he regretted the silence that it had brought with it. It lay over them all, a thick, heavy blanket of thorns, and the ring laughed at it. The stronger the silence grew, the more likely it was to draw cracks in their ranks, and the more they fought amongst themselves, the better it would be for the ring.

It was growing heavier, slowly, but surely, and the desire to slip it on was building. But Frodo would not try it on – he could do this. The more you used the ring, the more power it had over you. That was what Gandalf had said. Frodo would not give it any more power than it already had.

No – he was supposed to be thinking of something else. He looked around at the other boats, at the emptiness of the lands around them, but then he looked ahead. Something was looming through the mist, great stone pillars like the dwarven statues of Erebor.

Narrowing his eyes, Frodo leant forward, and as they drew closer he saw that they were indeed statues, but even larger than the dwarves who stood guard to his city. Beyond them stretched out a narrow passage that the river ran through, a chasm with walls as high as mountain. Tall and proud, the two carven figures stood on either side, each with one hand holding an axe, and the other held out before them, like a warning.

"Well, that looks a wee bit ominous," Sam muttered under his breath.

"Do not be afraid," said Aragorn, his voice ringing stronger and clearer than Frodo had ever heard it. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that the man sat tall and proud, with a smile on his face and his hair billowing behind him in the wind. There was no better word for it. Aragorn looked kingly. "Behold the Argonath! Once, this was the northernmost border of Gondor. Long have I wished to stare upon the faces of my forebears. Isildur and Anárion… Come – keep the boats in single file, steer as near to the centre of the river as you can."

The others signalled their acknowledgement with nods, and Aragorn steered their boat to the front of the line. Frodo gazed up at the Argonath, and awe took his breath away, but when they passed into the chasm, it became very dark, and Frodo shivered.

 _We enter what was once was Gondor, and at once it grows dark,_ he thought. _I don't much like the idea of that._

Yet the very moment that he finished the thought, an old, familiar voice passed through his mind.

 _"Ah Frodo, my lamb, if you look for the light you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see."_

A small smile flickered over Frodo's face. It had been a long time since he heard his mother's voice, and it was a saying that he thought he had forgotten. But it was something that Primula had said a lot, something that she had murmured to him after every nightmare, and sung to him when they sat outside and gazed at the stars.

He glanced over his shoulder at Aragorn's shining face, and at Boromir's awestruck eyes, and then he looked back ahead, at the light at the end of the chasm. It was like a great beacon, tall and bright, and the sun sparkled against the dark water and, the slick stone walls.

Frodo's smile grew a little stronger.

That following day, they reached the Falls of Rauros.

They were louder than Frodo could ever have imagined, and even a league away he could hear it roar. It sounded fierce, ominous and cruel, but he repeated his mother's words to himself and imagined the beauty of sunlight on the spray, and thought of Kíli's playful description of tumbling down small waterfalls in Mirkwood.

As the afternoon wore into its third hour, the fellowship steered towards the Shore, bringing their boats carefully up onto a grey, shingle beach.

Around them, the land was wooded again, and Frodo was grateful for the shelter. Nevertheless, the atmosphere between the fellowship had not much improved, and as they set up camp, Boromir sighed, and let his pack fall to the ground rather unceremoniously.

"I'm going to look for firewood," he said. "We're earlier to camp today, but dark is only a few hours off. I'd rather have it stored than go cold in the night."

Frodo wondered if he had imagined the twang of bitterness beneath the man's tone. For a moment, the hobbit hesitated, but then he smiled. "That makes a good deal of sense to me. I will go with you, unless you'd prefer to be alone."

Boromir's eyebrows rose high, and he shook his head slowly. "I would not."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo saw Sam narrow his eyes, but he made the symbol for 'calm' in Iglishmêk behind his back, and Sam said nothing.

"Well, let's go then." Frodo kept his voice light, and Boromir nodded. Together, they walked into the forest, walking for several minutes before they began to collect dried wood.

Eventually, Boromir spoke very softly. "I think you are making a mistake, taking the Emyn Muil. I think it is a foolish path indeed."

"You thought the very idea of our quest foolish," Frodo reminded him quietly. "Did you not?"

Boromir glared down at him, and then Frodo saw it again. That glint in the man's eyes, that yearning. And it flickered for a few moments longer than usual. "I did. But I also said that if it is the only way, I would do what I could to help. Yet I think you are unwise to take that path. What are your reasons?"

"Many," Frodo said, thinking quickly and carefully. "And it was not a decision that I took lightly. Do you think you will leave us?" Boromir's eyes narrowed further, and Frodo elaborated. "I would not judge you if you did – you must be worried about your people, for your home. I am afraid for mine."

Boromir's face softened slightly. "I fear for Minas Tirith. But I do not yet know which road I will take, now. You may carry the brunt of this burden, but you are not the only one with a choice, Frodo."

"I know," said Frodo, sighing heavily. "I know." He bent down, picking up some twigs that looked promising for kindling. They were damp, and he frowned, letting them fall back to the ground. They did not need a smoking fire.

"I still think there is a way it might be used," said Boromir, and Frodo's heart sank into his stomach. "My father is wise, a noble man, he would know how to wield it."

"I do not think he would," said Frodo sharply. "Is he wiser than Elrond? Than Gandalf? With all due respect, Boromir, I think not."

"What would you know about it?" snapped Boromir, turning on Frodo fiercely. The wood tumbled from his arms, and the spark in his eyes fanned into flames. "Nothing! You are just a halfling swept up into affairs bigger than you are!"

Frodo squared his feet and stared up at Boromir coldly. His heart was beating very fast. "And you are just a man who cannot see sense beyond his own pride."

Boromir made a noise like a choked dog, and lunged forward, but Frodo stepped toward him, letting his own pile of wood fall from his arms. The man stopped.

"Do not be a fool, Boromir," Frodo said. "I may be a halfling, but I was raised with dwarves and wolves. And you are not yourself."

"Not myself?" snarled Boromir, his lip curling. "Not myself – I ask only the power to defend my people!"

"It is not a power I can give! No one can; the ring only has the power to destroy!" insisted Frodo, trying not to raise his voice. "As for your father – he may be wise in matters of lore and logic, but in others he is blinder than you. Tell me, does he still treat Faramir like an unwanted ward?"

Boromir stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. For a moment, all anger and gold lust vanished from his face, and he looked almost vulnerable. "What did you just say?" he whispered.

"You heard me."

Anger returned to crease Boromir's brow, and again his eyes blazed, but Frodo thought he could see confusion lingering behind the man's fury. "How dare you? You know nothing of my family! Nothing!"

Frodo held his ground. If he could just get Boromir to think of his brother, the man might be able to break the spell of the ring. "Yet I speak the truth, you know it. You are slipping, Boromir, it is creeping over you. You are not trying to protect your people – you are lusting over the power you think you could wield! If you wished to protect your people, that would include your brother. By denying the way the Steward treats him, you are doing Faramir a disservice."

"How _dare_ you?" roared Boromir, lunging forward.

Even as he stepped out of the way, Frodo cursed himself. He had gone too far, and he knew it. Already, he could imagine Bilbo scolding him for being so insensitive, and so accusatory. But there was no time to think of what he should have said instead, for when he dodged Boromir's first attack, the man swung a kick from nowhere that knocked Frodo off his feet.

"Stop it, Boromir!" he yelled, scrambling backwards and standing up. He dodged another blow, and blocked another. "I do not want to fight you! I'm sorry-"

"You will be," growled Boromir, his hands landing on Frodo's collar. "You are not worthy to carry it, you are a disgrace!"

Dropping his weight to the floor, Frodo escaped Boromir's hold, but the man was a captain for a reason, and despite the training Frodo received in Erebor, they were not an even match. Frodo trained because he had to, but Boromir loved the sport of the fight, and he was twice Frodo's size. Part of Frodo longed to scream for help as he dodged and scrambled, but he did not want the others to see Boromir like this – he could snap out of it, he would snap out of it –

His leg hooking around the back of Frodo's knees, Boromir sent the hobbit crashing down onto the ground, and pinned him down, his knees either side of the hobbit's chest. Frodo met his eyes, and a thrill of horror ran through them.

They looked black. Dark as Khazad-dûm, as wicked as the Balrog – and not Boromir's eyes at all.

The man tugged at Frodo's collar, trying to get to the ring, but Frodo fought back, jabbing the heel of his hand into Boromir's nose. It broke with a sickening crunch, and blood sprayed over Frodo, over the ground. Howling, Boromir leant back, and Frodo sent another punch to his gut. The man folded over, and Frodo wriggled out from underneath him.

" _Snake_!" roared Boromir, lunging forward and seizing Frodo's ankle. Frodo kicked at his hand, not wanting to injure his friend any further. His own hand rose towards his neck, to make sure the ring was still there, but then, before he knew what was happening, his finger slipped into the ring.

Boromir let go at once, and then reached forward again with a roar. "I see your heart! You will take the ring to Sauron!"

Staggering backwards, Frodo stared incredulously at the shadowed world around him. It seemed blurred, and the trees rose like white lights. Before him, Boromir writhed on the ground, like a wraith of grey smoke. Breathless, Frodo stared down at his hands, at his feet. His body was covered in a white-grey mist, and he felt at once limitless, and so very, very small.

He looked back at Boromir.

"Curse you! You and all the halflings!" Boromir's shout was cut off by a cry as the man slipped, and fell, and for a moment, he lay panting on the forest floor. Then, slowly, he raised his head, and his eyes grew wider than Frodo had ever seen them.

And tears formed in them, and washed the last of the gold lust away.

"Frodo?" he whispered, and then stared down at his hands. "Frodo? What have I done?"

Swallowing, Frodo steeled himself. Then, he took off the ring, and shoved it down his shirt. "Are you quite done?" he asked.

"Frodo!" gasped Boromir, reaching out and then drawing his hand back. "Get away! Get away! I know not what came over me, I am sorry, Frodo, I am so sorry! Get away!"

"I know what came over you," Frodo said sadly. "And I am sorry that I pushed you as I did. I meant only to show you how the ring was twisting your thought. I did not intend to offend your family, or your father." _Though I think he's a rather horrible person,_ he added in his mind. Then, he hung his head. "I am sorry, too. I did not think of what I said. I handled that badly."

Tears trailed down Boromir's cheeks, and it was a sight so strange that Frodo's own eyes stung. The great man's hair was full of leaves, and his face full of grief and shame, and when he gathered the breath to speak, he sounded utterly broken.

"I – I cannot go with you."

Frodo swallowed, and felt hot tears break free down his own face. "I did not say that."

"But you know it to be true," Boromir mourned. "I cannot – If I am so weak as to fall here, I am a threat to you, to all of you. I have failed you. I am truly sorry, Frodo. You were my friend, and I failed you."

Frodo swallowed the lump in his throat. "Well, if it is your choice to return home, my stance remains the same. I will still count you as a friend, until the end of my days."

Boromir's eyebrows furrowed incredulously. "After this?"

Frodo shrugged, smiling sadly, and stepped forward. Boromir flinched, and Frodo offered him his hand. "Unless, of course, you betray me in true cold blood. Then, it may get a little more difficult. But this…" he gestured to the mess around them, and the leaves still tangled in Boromir's hair. "This is not Boromir, son of Denethor. It is the work of the ring. _That_ is what it does to people. Why I must destroy it."

Boromir's hand closed around Frodo's. "And why I cannot come with you."

Frodo nodded, tears dripping from his chin as he squeezed Boromir's hand, and helped the man to his feet.

"One day," promised Boromir, "I will make this up to you. I will redeem myself, however that may be. If your city needs me, or your Shire, I will bring the might of Gondor down upon their foes. I will, somehow, I swear it."

Frodo nodded, sniffing, and smiling through his tears. "I do not doubt it. You will do great things, Boromir of Gondor."

"As will you, Frodo Baggins of Erebor," said Boromir, his other hand encasing Frodo's. His eyes flickered to Frodo's neck, and he swallowed. "What shall we tell the others?"

Frodo paused. "That we think it is best you return to Minas Tirith. That you know your duty lies with your people, and that your city needs you. They will be content with that, and there is no need to tell them of… well."

Boromir bowed his head, and his hands fell away from Frodo's. "That is more decency than I deserve, Frodo." Frodo said nothing. He was not sure what he could say. After a long moment, Boromir sighed. "I think, if I may, I might take a walk alone. Clear my head – order my thoughts."

Frodo nodded. "Of course. Take your time. If you are not back by sundown, we will look for you. I suspect it would be dangerous to wander alone for too long."

"Of course." Boromir bowed. "Thank you, Frodo."

Frodo nodded again, and trudged away. He thought he was heading back to camp, but after a few minutes he realised that he had been walking in utterly the wrong direction. Lost in his thoughts and his grief, he had wound up lost in real life, too.

"Mahal damn it!" he muttered, looking around. Nearby, there rose a tall hill, and he began to climb. At least if he reached the top, he might see which direction the river was. If he found that, he could make his way back from there. Up and up he climbed, finding that the hill was both steeper and higher than it appeared. When he reached the top, he found a great stone seat, and he paused, staring at it. He stepped closer, running his fingers over the ancient stone. Then, feeling just as small as he had the time he snuck onto Thorin's throne, he clambered into the seat.

Far and wide, the world stretched out before him, broad and beautiful, and far, and if he narrowed his eyes and gazed far into the north, he could just make out the smudge of Mirkwood on the far horizon. The beauty of the world took his breath away, but the ring laughed and grew cold against his chest, and he saw smoke rising from the Misty Mountains, and from Isengard in the West, but he forced himself to remember why he had climbed the hill. The river. It looked to be just below his feet, just a little to the south, and he nodded.

"Frodo? Frodo!"

He frowned at the sound of Sam's voice, coming not from the direction of the river, but from behind him. He hopped out of the seat and walked behind it, only to see Merry leading Nelly, Bróin, Sam and Pippin up the hill.

"There you are!" cried Pippin, breathing heavily and looking rather indignant. "What on earth are you doing up here?"

"Walking," Frodo said, somewhat obviously. "I got lost. What are you doing here?"

"You've been gone nigh on an hour," said Bróin, narrowing his eyes. "Even _Bodin_ doesn't take so long collecting firewood, and he's still a wee child. And we thought we heard shouting, a while back. Where's Boromir?"

"He went for a walk," Frodo sighed, peering down into the woods below. "He has decided that he must return to Minas Tirith, that his duty lies with his people, but the choosing has upset him. I do not blame him."

Sam gave a 'humph.' "I think he oughta've said he wasn't going to be going the whole way before he joined us."

"He did, Sam," Frodo reminded him. "Bilbo was content with that, and so am I." The hair on the back of Frodo's neck stood up, and he frowned. There was something wrong, but he could not quite put his finger on it.

"What is it?" asked Nelly, narrowing her eyes at him. "Frodo?"

"We should be getting back," he said slowly. "Where are the others?"

"Looking for Boromir, and for you," said Bróin. "The river's that way, no point in going the long way around."

"Let Merry lead, Bróin," said Pippin sagely. "With your sense of direction, we'd end up in Fangorn before we reach camp."

Frodo laughed with the others, but then he caught sight of Nelly. There was a tree behind her, its leafless branches stretching out towards them, casting a shadow of a hook over her shoulder. His laughter died in his throat, and the very air in his lungs turned to sand.

"Frodo?" asked Sam sharply. "What is it?"

"I know this place," he whispered, his horror growing. He had not recognised it before because it was just a forest, a forest he had never seen, and he had never seen this hill before, but he knew it, he knew as surely as he knew his own name that this was the same forest he had seen in his dream. "We need to leave, we need to leave now! We need to get back to the boats and cross the river."

"But Legolas said there are orcs on the other side of the river," protested Pippin. "We were to wait for the cover of night and-"

"No," Frodo said. "We need to find the others, and we need to leave. Nelly, Bróin, keep your eyes open. And – oh Mahal…"

"What?" Merry's question rose to a cry. "Frodo, what _is_ it?"

"Where is Boromir?" he breathed, an image of an arrow thudding into the man's chest passing through his mind. Where was Boromir?

"This is the forest from your vision?" Merry realised, horror spreading over his face. Frodo nodded.

Frantically, he wracked his brains, trying to think of how he could warn the others. "Bróin! Your gift, your gift from Galadriel."

Bróin nodded right away, grabbing at the whistle. But as he raised it to his lips, Pippin gave a cry.

"Look!" His face grew paler than a wraith, and he pointed back the way they had come.

Orcs.

They were charging towards the base of the hill, _hundreds_ of them, larger and more hideous than any Frodo had seen, armed to their teeth and laughing in the face of the sun.

"Uruk hai!" he breathed, horror filling him even as he backed away.

Nelly was the first to draw her sword, but she was shaking her head. "We can't fight them, there's too many!"

Two hands grasped Frodo's shoulders roughly, and he jumped, but it was Merry who shook him, and stared him in the eye. "Run, Frodo. You and Sam need to go, get out of here! Get back to the boats and cross the river, now! We'll draw them off."

"What?" Frodo would have felt better if Merry had sent a roundhouse kick to his jaw. "What are you talking about, that's suicide! No, no!"

"No, it makes sense," Nelly said quickly, nodding her head, even as she backed away towards the east. "We'll split up, draw them off – make sure they follow us, and not you. You _cannot_ be caught, Frodo. We'll meet you in a week, at the end of the Emyn Muil, if we don't catch up before then. But if we're not there in a week, you _must_ go on. No matter what."

They were right, and Frodo knew they were. The orcs were drawing nearer, and his heart was beating harder, and to escape unseen he had only seconds. "But-"

"Remember Moria, remember Soren!" insisted Merry, taking Pippin's hand and jogging backwards in the opposite direction to Nelly. "Go, Frodo! We'll catch up."

Feeling his heart rip in two, Frodo nodded, and the ring laughed in his ears.

And he ran.

 **There we go! I'm quite happy with this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it too. Also, for those who may have noticed, I did shamelessly quote Uncle Iroh from Avatar: The Last Airbender with: 'If you look for the light you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see.' Uncle Iroh is one of my favourite characters, and that is one of my (many) favourite quotes of his :)**

 **Anyways, I'll see you next Monday, if not sooner, so until then, take care, and thanks for reading :D**


	46. Chapter 46: The Stand of Meriadoc

**Hey there! Thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it. As ever, please forgive any typos I may have made in this one.**

 **Chapter Forty-Six: The Stand of Meriadoc Brandybuck**

Heart hammering up somewhere in his throat, Merry tore through the undergrowth as fast as his feet would carry him. A leap and a stumble had wrenched Pippin's hand from his, but he could hear his cousin's heavy breathing behind him, and he knew that he was right behind.

And that the orcs were close behind them.

"It's working, Merry," Pippin called fearfully.

Merry glanced over his shoulder and felt a rush of terror. "I know it's working. Run!"

They thundered down the hill and into the woodland, further and further from the river and the boats, but there was no path to follow, and they were being corralled by the brush. Trees reached out and clawed at them, and Merry had no idea where he was going. Roots and branches hid beneath the fallen leaves on the forest floor and tried to trip him, but Merry could not afford to trip. He could not afford to fall.

He glanced over his shoulder again, and he could not tell how many of the orcs were following. If they were following Frodo instead –

Taking a deep breath, Merry let out a yell, trying to sound shocked, or afraid, and not as though he was trying to lead them away.

 _"If you're causing a diversion," Nori said, one winter's night around the fire, "never call 'over here!' If your enemy's got more sense than a common troll they might sense a trap."_

"Merry!" Pippin cried. "Merry-"

"Keep going, Pippin. Keep going!"

The forest floor cleared, and Merry ran faster, faster and faster until his feet felt like rocks and his legs were screaming, but every time he looked over his shoulder, the uruk-hai were closer. And closer.

And there were dozens of them, and Merry and Pippin could not fight them alone. There were so many.

"Merry!"

"Go faster," Merry gasped, leaping onto a small bridge that spanned a ditch. Pippin stumbled after him, but then grabbed his arm and yanked him to a halt.

"No, Merry, look!" Pippin pointed ahead, further up the hill, and Merry's heart lurched. Sprawling over the hill towards them were more orcs – at least twenty, and their weapons were raised. "What do we do? Merry, what do we do?"

Merry swallowed, and seized Pippin's hand. The orcs were almost upon them –

"This way!" he leapt over the side of the bridge into the ditch, dragging Pippin with him, but Pippin had not been expecting the jump, and he tripped. His hand was torn from Merry's, and even as he scrambled to his feet, an orc leapt on top of him.

With a cry, Merry flew back, but Pippin's sword burst out through the orc's torso, and the younger hobbit scrambled out from beneath the beast, flinging himself at Merry.

But there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to go.

They were surrounded.

Corralled into a ditch. They were going to die in a ditch.

 _I don't want to die._

Taking a deep breath, Merry raised his sword, and took up a fighting stance, holding out his left arm to shelter Pippin behind him. He knew it would not do much good, but he could not bear the thought of Pippin being vulnerable.

"Merry," Pippin whispered, but his voice was choked, and he did not seem able to say anything else. "Merry…"

"Brace yourself, nadadith," Merry whispered back. "At least there's not a dragon."

Pippin let out a hollow laugh and raised his sword, and the fight began.

Channelling Dwalin as best he could, Merry lunged at the nearest orc, and in moments it was down, and two more were in its place. Merry twisted and swiped and hacked and stabbed, barely catching sight of his enemy before felling the next foe. But even when three heads had hit the floor, no blade seemed to strike Merry in return. In fact, the uruk-hai seemed almost to be trying to keep their weapons away from the hobbits – but it was too puzzling for Merry to warp to his advantage, so he ignored it, and carried on with his hacking. If he was going down, Merry was going down swinging.

The uruk-hai grappled at him, grasping and grabbing at his clothes and his hair and his limbs, and he found that the more hands he severed, the more came flying back at him. He ducked and pivoted, thrusting his sword up into the back of an orc, and trying to get an eye on Pippin. So far, Pippin was holding his own, and black blood and mangled limbs littered the ground around his feet.

A hand closed around Merry's neck.

Shock shot a jolt of energy through his body, and Merry thrust his elbows back towards his attacker with all the strength he could muster, but they did not hit the orc. Instead, they collided with a metal shield, and pain ricocheted up his arms. With a cry of pain, Merry raised his sword and tried to aim it blindly over his shoulder, but another hand seized his wrist and wrested the blade from his grip.

Merry snarled, and kicked at the uruk-hai in front of him. Then he dropped his weight to the ground in an attempt to wriggle free, but the hand around his neck lifted only to be replaced by a thick, hairy arm. And then he was pulled into the air, and his feet were wrenched from the floor.

"Merry!"

Writhing fruitlessly, Merry clawed at the orc's arm until chunks of its skin were scraping off beneath its nails, but when its blood flowed, the creature began to squeeze. And Merry began to choke.

"Merry!" Pippin screamed, growing blurry as he hacked his way towards the older hobbit. "Let him go!"

A roar answered Pippin, a roar that Merry knew, and then a sword passed over his head, and the arm around his neck slackened, and fell. Before Merry could crash to the floor, another arm had caught him, and set him upon his feet.

"Boromir!" he gasped, even as he stooped to reclaim his sword. But there was no time for thanks – the fight was still going on around them, and with one fell stroke Boromir carved through five orcs.

Yet even before that, the uruk-hai fell upon him with a violence unlike any Merry had ever seen, and soon the man was surrounded. And while the orcs continued to attempt to grab Merry and Pippin, it was their blades that they thrust towards Boromir. With skill unrivalled, he dodged and parried their blows, and Merry and Pippin backed towards him. They were surrounded, a triad back to back in a sea of black foes, and still the orcs kept coming. Again, and again, and again –

Boromir took his horn and raised it to the sky, letting out an almighty blow that rang through the woods like a dragon's roar, and the onslaught faltered. Merry pressed forward, forcing the orcs back, and Boromir and Pippin did the same, but the moments bled by and no help came.

An uruk-hai began to laugh, a grating, cold sound, and then they charged again. A booted foot hit Merry in the stomach and he was flung backwards. He crashed into Boromir, who stumbled blindly, and then Merry hit the forest floor. Boromir let out a yell of pain, and Merry's head snapped up.

The man staggered backwards before Merry could warn him, tripping over the hobbit's body and falling to the ground with another cry. Curling in on himself, Boromir cradled his arm to his chest, his face growing pale as his sleeve turned red.

Behind him, an orc raised a sword to deal a death blow.

Merry leapt to his feet, but before he could even move Pippin was there, black blood splattering over his face as he drove his sword into the orcs chest. His force tore through the beast's armour as though it were made of cotton.

Pride bolstering his heart, Merry sprang at the next threat to Boromir, stabbing at its neck and forcing it back, and the enemy began to stumble over the corpses of their comrades.

With a groan, Boromir rose to his feet, and Merry saw that the man had bound his sword arm to his chest with his belt. He took his sword in his left hand and adjusted his grip, before letting out a growl like a wounded boar, and downing two orcs at once.

But more were coming. More – at least another dozen, and Merry's muscles were screaming for rest, and Boromir's steps were more like stumbles.

A shadow appeared over the hill, and for half a moment Merry's heart leapt. Aragorn –

No –

His blood ran cold.

It was not Aragorn. It was an orc, taller than any he had ever seen, and it was raising its bow. Aiming.

"Boromir!" Merry yelled, but it was too late, and the arrow struck the man in the shoulder.

Boromir's eyes widened, and he peered down at the arrow as though it was merely a surprise. He swayed for a moment, and then another arrow glanced off his neck, and Boromir fell to his knees.

"No!" Merry cried furiously. He could feel his strikes become less polished, more desperate, but concentration was slipping through his fingers faster than sand from a broken hour glass. He could see the orc on the hill taking aim again, and he seized a rock from the ground, darting out of the melee beneath the shoulders of a pair of orcs and leaping back up onto the bridge.

He knew he would have but a second, and he drew his arm back, throwing the rock with as much might as he could muster in the same moment that the archer released his bow. The arrow landed somewhere behind Merry with a sickening thud, but the moment Merry's rock hit its mark the archer fell. And did not rise.

A mad grin played on Merry's lips for a second, and he whirled back towards the fight. There were already three orcs climbing towards him, but he leapt back off the bridge and onto the back of another, stabbing his knife into the flesh above its collarbone. With a surge of horror, he remembered that was where the wraith had stabbed Fíli.

He twisted his knife for good measure, and the orc fell. Beside it was the body of another orc, an arrow lodged in its neck. Merry breathed a sigh of relief that it had not struck Boromir, but when he looked up, it was to see another red shaft sticking out from the man's chest.

And Pippin was staring, wide eyed.

And not seeing what was behind him.

 _"Pippin!"_ Merry screamed, throwing out his hand, but he was too far, and it was too late.

The uruk-hai brought its shield down upon Pippin's head, and Merry's little cousin crumpled like a paper doll. He fell atop a headless orc, his eyes closed, and he did not move.

"No, no!" Merry's fear rose into his burning throat to choke him, and he fought through the crowd as fast as his frantic sword blows would allow, but it was too late – Pippin was slung over the shoulder of an uruk twice Merry's size, and half the group were peeling away. Carrying Pippin away.

Boromir's eyes bulged from their sockets, and he drew himself up onto shaking legs. One step, two steps, and then he ripped the arrow from his chest and jabbed it through the eye of a nearby orc. He began to stagger after Pippin, but then a blow struck the back of his head, and Boromir landed face first in the dirt.

Merry did not see him move.

And Pippin was almost out of his sight.

They were going to take Pippin away, he was going to lose his little brother again, and this time Pippin would be alone. There would be no Glorfindel or Aragorn to save him. And Merry might die here, with honour and valour that would be sung of in Erebor, but Pippin would die alone and afraid, and the very thought froze Merry's soul.

There was only one thing to do.

For a heartbeat, he did not know if he would have the strength to do it, but then he saw Boromir's fingers twitch, and he saw Pippin disappear between the trees.

Hands trembling, Merry gasped, and let his sword fall from his fingers.

In an instant, and uruk had its arms around his neck, and Merry turned his mind from the teaching of his dwarves, and he stopped fighting. The arms tightened, and again Merry's eyes began to blur over, and the last thing he saw before the world went dark was Boromir, alone in a ditch among the of orcs, reaching after Merry and Pippin with a trembling, bloodied hand.

 **I hope that you guys enjoyed that chapter and that it wasn't too bloody for you! :/ Please do let me know what you think, and where you think the story's going to go from here.**


	47. Chapter 47: The Severed and the Summit

**Hey there! Thanks for those who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it! As ever, please forgive my typos here, and I hope that you enjoy!**

 **Chapter Forty-Seven: The Severed and the Summit**

With the wind in her hair and blood in her eyes, Nelly hacked limbs from the filth that swarmed at her. Bróin's back was pressed against hers, and a ring of corpses lay at their feet, but every uruk-hai that fell was replaced by another. They had run for nearly an hour before the uruk-hai caught up with them, but she could not tell how long they had been fighting for. It felt like an age.

And Nelly was well aware that Bróin was bearing the brunt of the attack.

The uruk-hai pawed at her, and tried to grasp at her arms, but they thrust their weapons at Bróin, and there were twice as many crowded around him. So far, he had blocked every blow, but he was tiring, and he could not dodge a dozen swords forever. The intention was clear.

They wanted to capture Nelly. And they wanted to kill Bróin.

And both Nelly and Bróin were growing weary.

Soon, Bróin would slip, and when he did a blade could hit its mark. And that was a thought worse than being taken captive herself. Nelly's mind raced faster even than her feet, her eyes darting around as much as she dared in search of a way to escape.

 _"Because being brave's no use if your dead. Honour, valour – you can get those back later, and they ain't worth more than your life."_ As Nori's voice filled her mind, she wished fiercely that he was there. He would know what to do.

But she was capable of just as much as he was, and she saw her chance with a weak spot in the ring of uruk-hai. A place where there was only one uruk-hai, a place where that uruk already had a limp.

"Irmish!" she yelled, and felt Bróin tense behind her. _Prepare._ Then, she thrust her sword into the chest of the weak link, throwing her body weight onto the sword to throw it right and left, and break a gap in the ring of uruk-hai. " _Ibsinat_!"

 _Run._

Instantly Bróin whirled around, and together they leapt through the gap and sprang for the trees. Faster than they had run even in their dreams, Nelly and Bróin tore through the woods side by side, further from Frodo and from their family, and further north.

She knew that running was just as dangerous as fighting, that their chances of actually getting away were slim as a blade of grass, but the chance was there. They were small and fast, and the uruk-hai were heavily armoured. They were small, and they were fast.

They were fast enough – the distance between them and the uruk-hai began to grow, two yards, three, six, ten, and Nelly's heart soared at the thought of escape. If they could keep this up – wait –

"Bróin," she gasped, "can uruk-hai swim?"

His answer came at once through the panting of his breath. "Don't know, don't think so. River?"

She nodded, and began to veer towards the river. The Anduin was strong and fierce, but she preferred their chances keeping their heads above the water than keeping their necks from swords. With any luck, the Anduin could carry them away to safety.

Her legs burnt so fiercely that she knew her knees would soon buckle, but then she saw the glimmer of water through the trees. They broke free from the trees onto a shingle beach, and she drew in a gasp of relief.

And then Bróin let out a strangled cry, and he fell away from her side. Nelly skidded to a halt and looked back, and then the breath fled her lungs and her feet froze to the floor.

Bróin was on the ground, his terrified face raised towards her, his legs sprawled out behind him.

There was an arrow sticking up out of his back.

But it could not be deep, could not have hurt him, _please, please don't let it have hurt him,_ and she she darted back. Bróin scrambled to his feet, but the uruk-hai reached him before she did, and they grasped his hair and threw him back down into the dirt.

The uruk-hai poured over him, flooding towards Nelly, but she only had eyes for Bróin. He twisted to stab the nearest uruk, but another swung its sword into the side of Bróin's arm and he howled.

"Bróin!" Nelly could barely hear her own voice as she struggled through the throng towards him. He was wearing mail, he had to be wearing mail, he could not be hurt, he could not be dying –

Laughing, the uruk that had struck Bróin stamped his foot down onto the young dwarf's back, pinning him to the ground with his heavy boot and kicking the arrow away. Bróin grunted, and his face contorted in pain.

Then, the uruk-hai above him raised its sword, and Bróin looked up. His eyes grew very wide, and he shrunk in on himself, and Nelly's knees gave way as she marked the trajectory of the blade. The uruk-hai meant to sever Bróin's head.

 _No –_

" _Nelly_!" Bróin screamed, and the sword swung down.

Throwing herself forward, Nelly cast her own sword into its path. With all the strength she had, she thrust it up and away, as far from Bróin's throat as possible. Then she withdrew, and buried her blade in the uruk's gut until her hilt was pressed against the creature's flesh. The uruk's eyes widened, but she gave it no space to process its doom, and she drove it off Bróin with a roar.

"Get away!"

Bróin clambered to his feet, but the next thing Nelly knew there was a clawed fist in her hair dragging her backwards, and her arms were seized by uruk-hai, and her sword was ripped from her fingers.

"Get off me, get _off!"_ she yelled, unsure if she was more angry or terrified.

With a laugh, the uruk-hai dragged her head back, and pressed a blade against her neck. She could feel the edge, serrated, against her skin, and the hand in her hair held her in place, and there was nowhere she could squirm to escape. She could only gasp as her hands were dragged together, and her wrists bound with a cord that bit deep into her skin.

"No!" Bróin roared, but his charge was cut short with a boot to the face, and once again he was cast onto the ground.

This time, the uruk-hai gave him no chance to rise.

They beat him with the hilts of their swords, and with their boots and their clubs, and they laughed when his sword slipped from his fingers, and his arms stopping clawing at them to cover his own head. dropped his sword, and tried helplessly to cover his head.

"Stop!" There was no noise Nelly could make that was not a scream, no word that would be complete except his name. "Bróin, Bróin! Leave him alone, _please!"_

 _"Please!"_ The uruk-hai jeered, and one stamped viciously on the spot where the arrow had hit. Bróin screamed and his head jerked up, face twisted in pain. One of the others took aim as though he was playing a game of football, and before Nelly could even gasp a warning the uruk struck. Its boot collided with Bróin's chin, and his head snapped up –

And his eyes rolled up into the back of his skull –

And his head fell to the ground –

And he did not move.

He did not make a noise.

And when the uruk-hai took aim and stomped a foot down onto Bróin's back, he did not scream.

But Nelly did.

 _"No!_ Bróin, _Bróin!_ Wake up, Bróin, _please!_ Please, Bróin, please, wake up, just wake up, Bróin, _Bróin!"_

"Bróin!" crooned an uruk, wresting her from the arms of its companion and throwing her over its shoulder. "Bróin, Bróin, oh no, poor Bróin! Ha! Who knew dwarf necks were so easy to break?"

A mangled shriek ripped from Nelly's throat and she pounded her elbows into the uruk-hai's back and drove her knees into its chest, but it did not so much as flinch. Then, it began to run. Raising her head, Nelly saw the others following it, treading over Bróin. His body jerked and twitched beneath their boots, but he showed no sign of life.

"Bróin! Help me, Bróin, _help me_!"

He did not even twitch, and Nelly sobbed. Because Bróin could not hear her – if he could, nothing would stop him from trying to help. Even if all he could do was raise his head, he would do it, if Nelly screamed Bróin would be there. He had always been there.

He was not moving.

 _Bróin…_

The uruk-hai bombarded her with jeers and cackles, and sang her Bróin's name to her as they carried her away.

She was already out of earshot when Bróin's fingers tightened around a bloodied sword, and a handful of dead leaves.

* * *

It was deeply, bitterly cold. Preferable, perhaps, to the tremendous thunderstorm that had struck when they tried the High Path on the quest for Erebor, but unpleasant in itself. The memory of their first trip did little to comfort Bofur, Nori and the Bagginses – clouds lurked above, heavy and grey and full to the bursting, but whether they threatened rain or snow, Fíli could not tell. Neither would surprise him, but either would be most unwelcome.

Fíli had never much liked the cold. His brother had been born in the midst of a vicious winter, one so fierce that inside their mountain it was even colder than it was outside. There had been two fireplaces in their home at the time, one in their kitchen and one in their parents' room, and as such both Fíli and the baby were largely confined to those two rooms.

They had to keep the baby warm, his Adad had explained, because he was very, very small, and if he grew too cold, he would go to sleep forever.

And then winter had become even worse, when in its height a dozen orcs took his Kíli away from him.

For twenty-one years, winter had brought with it mourning, and the touch of the cold brought memories of screaming for his brother.

So while Fíli was not threatened by the cold any more than your average dwarf, he disliked it more than most. Especially when he was travelling with a hobbit, and with his pregnant mother. In the week since she had told them, she had shown little sign of slowing or tiring, but Fíli was beginning to see where her stomach was rounding out, and the rings beneath her eyes were growing darker. He was grateful for the wolves – not only did they allow the company to ride, and make good time, but they were a good source of heat, and little bothered by the mountains or the cold.

But the wolves were miserable, too. Denahi, in particular, was pining – for twenty-two had slept on the end of Merry's bed, or by his side when they were travelling, and in that time he had spent few nights away from the young hobbit. Now, Denahi walked with his head low, and his tail between his legs. At night, he whined, and howled softly, even when he fell into sleep.

They were well on their way up the High Pass, now.

Somewhere close, a wolf howled.

And it was not one of their own.

At once Fíli sat up straight, and put a hand on his sword's hilt as the wolves' heads perked up. Denahi let out a little howl of his own and lurched forward, faster than Fíli had ever seen him move. He darted past Bofur and Nori and leapt around the corner.

"Inhibî!" barked Nori, but the wolves did not seem ready to brace.

Instead, they lunged after Denahi, rounding the corner so fast that Fíli fell forward, wrapping his arms around Sitka's neck to avoid falling off. He heard Kíli cry out, and his heart seized.

"Kíli!"

" _Hold on!"_ cried Bragi, but Fíli could not see where he was – he could not see where anyone was. The world was spinning around him, spinning past him in hues of grey and blue and black, and the wind was pushing past him, and whipping his hair against his face.

They rounded the corner, and then Bofur gave a yell from ahead – but it was not a cry of fear or pain – it was relief. The world came back into view as Sitka slowed, whining like a desperate pup and trying to squeeze past the wolves in front of him, but they were all yapping and whining as frantically as he was.

And a gruff voice that Fíli knew all too well gave a sigh that sounded all too weak. "Oh, thank Mahal, it's you!"

"Glóin?" Dís cried, her voice cracking, and Fíli's heart leapt. He sat up as straight as he could, craning his neck to try and peek over the heads of the others. He could not see anything, but he could hear Glóin's voice as clear as his own.

"Thank goodness – there's a cavern, about fifty feet back, much more space. This way!"

There was the sound of a pony's hooves falling on stone, and the wolves !" surged forward, until one howled above the others, and they cowed into single file.

"It's Lani," Kíli said, and for the first time in days he was grinning. "She's the only one that could get them that excited, and then that quiet."

And when they reached Glóin's promised cavern, Kíli was proved right. But Glóin looked awful – he was pale as death, and Kíli was sure that he had twice as many wrinkles as he had when they had last seen him. His clothes were torn, and his sleeve was stained with blood. Lani, too, seemed in a bad way – her fur was matted with blood, and when Glóin dismounted she immediately slumped to the ground. The other wolves nuzzled at her, and Dís wrapped her arms around Glóin so tightly that he grunted.

"Whoa, there, Dís, lass, watch the arm! Easy lass, easy." He leant back slowly, and pressed his forehead to hers. "Easy. Oh, it's good to see you."

"What happened to you?" she murmured, inspecting his face carefully. "You look awful."

"Ran into some goblins a few days ago. They couldn't get the best of us though, eh Lani?"

The wolf howled softly, and laid her head on her paws. The other wolves crowded around her, with Luno, Denahi and Koda giving way to allow the younger wolves to snuggle close to their mother.

Swallowing, Glóin looked around, focusing on each of their faces, and when he saw Fíli he swayed on the spot and closed his eyes. "Oh, thank you Mahal, thank you… You alright laddie?"

Fíli frowned, unsure of why he was more of a concern than the others, but he gave a shrug, and then a nod. "I am alright," he said. It was not altogether a lie, though he felt it understated his grief somewhat significantly.

Glóin grinned, and the skin of his lips cracked, and began to bleed. But then his smile faded, and he read their faces again. "But where are the others? Where's Gimli?"

"Shall we sit down?" blurted Bilbo, putting a hand on Glóin's arm, and a murmur of nods and assent rippled over the group.

They all sank to the ground. It did not escape Fíli's notice that Glóin did so with a wince. Though the cavern was wide enough to fit a group twice their size, it did not go too far back into the mountain. Fíli made a note to keep an eye on the ground, lest it begin to crack. If it began to rain, they would not gain much shelter – though the space was carved back into the mountain, its sides were exposed, and the wind swept over them as much as it had before.

"So," said Glóin when they were settled. "Where are they?"

An ugly silence swelled around them, and Fíli glanced around. No one seemed willing to speak, to break the news, but fear grew on Glóin's face, and it was not fair. Fíli opened his mouth, but his throat caught. To his relief, Bilbo stepped up as usual.

"The little ones are safe in the Shire," he said. "Bodin, and the twins, and Pearl and her parents are with them, and Esme and Saradoc."

Glóin nodded slowly. "Right… and the others?"

Taking Dís' hand, Bilbo nodded. "Well, Bofin's in Rivendell. He's-"

"Hurt," said Bofur bluntly. "Badly. But he's alive, and Glorfindel reckons he'll stay that way."

"Glorfindel?"

"Bifur and Ori are with him," added Bilbo.

Leaning forward with pained eyes, Glóin asked once more. "And?"

"Soren," Bragi said, and Ehren flinched. Fíli hung his head. "Soren is dead."

What little colour Glóin had drained from his cheeks, and he stared from Bragi to Fíli to Bilbo. "No? How?"

Bragi kept his chin raised, though tears caught in his beard. "There was a fight. We were outnumbered, and he…"

"Went far above the call of duty," Fíli murmured. Kíli leant against his side, resting his head on Fíli's shoulder.

The wind whispered into the silence, and after a long moment Glóin licked his lips, and spoke with more fear than Fíli had ever heard from him. "And my son?"

"Alive," said Kíli quickly. "As far as we know, Gimli is fine."

"Aye," said Ehren. His voice still had a slight croak to it. "Off to gallivant into Mordor with a bunch of adolescent hobbits, but other than that he's fine."

Glóin sagged with relief, but he jolted back upright as if he had been struck by lightning, and he stared at Ehren with bulging eyes. "What did you just say?"

Ehren opened his mouth, but Bragi put a hand on his arm and he closed it again.

"Gimli is on a mission. A quest," said Bilbo carefully. "One that was intended for me. I won't speak of it here, we do not know who else may be listening. But that is where Gimli is. Frodo is with him, and Sam and Merry and Pippin-"

"And Nelly and Bróin, I'd wager," Glóin said, his eyes narrowing.

Bilbo nodded. "And Gandalf and Aragorn are with them, and Boromir of Gondor. Oh, and Legolas."

Glóin's eyes opened so wide that Fíli half worry they would fall out. "Thranduil's son? Damn it all – I knew that elf would be a bad influence!"

Kíli and Ehren snickered slightly, and Fíli gave half a smile.

"But you, Glóin?" pressed Dis. "What happened to you? Do you need a healer?"

"I wouldn't say no to some cleansing ointment, or to an extra pair of eyes to give it a look over," he said, slowly peeling makeshift bandages from his arm. Nori stood up and walked over, their healing bag over his shoulder. "On second thoughts, I'll be fine," joked Glóin, but he held out his arm in any case. "You don't have a pipe, do you?"

As Nori worked, Bofur fished out a spare pipe and handed it to Glóin, who lit it before he began to speak.

"I am here to look for you. To warn you. The Darkness is looking for you."

A chill washed over Fíli, and he frowned. "The Darkness?"

Eyes lingering on Fíli, Glóin gave a slow nod, and shuddered. "Aye, lad. That was Eyja's word for it, and we know no better. It called itself a messenger from Mordor, it came to the doors thrice asking for you, and then five times more, ere it declared open war. We know not what it was-"

"We do," said Bilbo glumly. "We know."

Glóin raised his eyebrows. "Well, do you know that an army of orcs and filthy men from Mordor are marching on our Mountain as we speak?"

"No, though we feared it. Gandalf told us," said Dís. "Where are they?"

"They were but a hundred leagues south of Dale, ere I left the mountain. But we've been trying to send word to you since June. We received no reply from the ravens, nor the messengers we first sent. After Gandalf appeared, we sent Austen and Auden to reach you, with orders to send word whence they reached the Misty Mountains. They… they never did."

"Why?" asked Vinca slowly, with a fear that told Fíli she already guessed the answer. He stared at Glóin in disbelief, but already the older dwarf was shaking his head.

"The goblins." Glóin swallowed, fury burning beneath the tears that swam in his eyes. "Same bunch that attacked me, if I know aught about anything. I – I found their bodies. Gave them as proper a burial as I could, in the mountains."

Vinca gave a moan and hung her head, letting her hair fall over her face to shield herself from view. Dís' arm wove around her and drew her in close, and Fíli tried to wrap his head around the loss of two more friends. Not friends as close as Soren, nor even quite as dear to him as Jari, their brother, but still the loss of the twins was like a punch to his gut.

"No," said Ehren, his voice oddly high. "No, Glóin, that is a lie!"

"It isn't, lad, though for all the blood in me I wish it was," he said, and Ehren began to tear at his hair, until Bragi threw an arm around his shoulders and began to murmur quietly to him.

Fíli looked away, and was met at once by his own brother's tearful eyes. He took Kíli in his arms at once, sinking his fingers into his brother's hair and just lingering in the fact that he was alive.

"Does Jari know?" asked Bilbo, his voice hollow. "Aria, Ari, Dori? Do they know?"

Glóin shrugged. "I do not know. I sent word back with a naked fox lady."

The entire group froze, with Ehren stopping mid sniff, and Vinca raising her head to stare, bewildered, at Glóin.

"Look at her!" he scoffed, pointing to Lani. "Not me. Disappeared off into the mountain and came back with a fox – next thing I know there's a woman in front of me naked as a new born babe. One of Beorn's folk, with less decency than he has."

"Alright," said Dís slowly. "But why did _you_ come, Glóin? If things were so dark, why would Thorin send you? Surely you are of more use to him?"

An odd look flickered over Glóin's face, a sort of thoughtfulness that was marred with concern. "We knew he was getting desperate when he started to talk about sending someone to Rivendell. He wanted to ask Elrond, about the Darkness. But his mind was made up by Eyja."

"Eyja?" Nori's eyebrows rose to meet his hairline. "And he says I have young advisors."

Glóin shook his head. "It was uncanny. She ran into the company room like some wee ghost, shouting about Thorin sending someone to Rivendell. She said that the Darkness had stabbed Fíli. I'm glad to see it's nonsense, of course-"

"What did she say?" interrupted Fíli, as Kíli's grip on his arm grew painfully tight, and the colour drained from his parents' faces.

Glóin stared at them, and his face crumpled. "Don't tell me that you _were_ stabbed?"

"What did she say?" he repeated, and Glóin sighed.

"That you had been stabbed by the Darkness on – what did she call it, the dead hill – she said that the Darkness had stabbed you, and that the White Wizard was sending you to Rivendell, and that you couldn't breathe. She saw it, she said, in a dream. Never seen the poor lass so upset…"

"She got almost everything right," Fíli said slowly, and Glóin's jaw dropped. "But the White Wizard – that is Saruman's title, and he offered no help. He is nothing but a filthy traitor. It was Gandalf that saved me, Gandalf and Elrond. Thanks to them, I am as well as you see me now. I'd never want Eyja to see that, poor baby…"

"Did she say anything else?" asked Kíli. "Did she see anything else?"

"Not that I'm aware of." Glóin smirked slightly. "Though when Balin asked if she had ever had visions before, she looked as him as though he'd grown a third head and asked, 'doesn't everyone?' But she was up and around with a smile on the next day, when I left, if a little more worried than usual. I reckon she'll be just fine."

"And so will you be," said Nori decidedly, slapping Glóin's shoulder and earning him a clap around the ears. "I reckon. But let's keep an eye on that – I'm surprised its not as ugly as your face yet. If you're right to ride, we should get on. Get to the mountain as soon as we can. Get you and Dís to Óin."

"Dís?" Glóin's neck snapped around so quickly that Fíli winced on his behalf. "What's wrong with Dís?"

"Nothing's _wrong,"_ she said pointedly, her face turning rather pink. "But I am pregnant."

"Right. Well, in that case I have but one request before we leave."

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. "And what might that be?"

"Please, for the love of Durin, tell me that _one_ of you has some ale? I need a drink – a big one."

 **So, do let me know what you think! What will happen? Who'll end up where? Will Glóin get his ale? I'd love to know what you're thinking. If you have the time and the inclination, please do leave a review for me, I'd really appreciate it! Until next Monday, thanks for reading, and take care :)**


	48. Chapter 48: Rise

**Sorry about the delay, I've been really busy, and wanted to make sure this chapter was up to scratch. It existed in some form yesterday, but I held off updating it and I'm so glad that I did, because I'm much happier with this result. I hope you enjoy it too, and forgive what typos my sleepy eyes missed!**

 **Chapter Forty-Eight: Rise**

The moment they crested the hill, Gimli knew that they were too late. He knew it when he saw the pile of orc corpses, when he saw Boromir lying among them. When he saw Merry's sword on the ground, and Pippin's fancy new elf blade beside it.

They were too late.

His axe dripped with the black blood of the uruk-hai, and the rush of battle still surged through his veins, but it had been for naught. The hobbits, his hobbits, were gone.

As soon as they had heard the horn of Gondor, he and Aragorn and Legolas had fought to reach it, but they had been waylaid, beset upon by orcs and uruk-hai alike, and it had been Boromir who paid the price.

A long, black staff, a spear, stood up from his neck like a naked mockery of a flagpole. As they drew closer, Gimli could see that it was pronged, and that there was sharp, black metal pressing against either side of Boromir's neck. The tips of the prongs had been driven into the ground, pinning the man's body in place. There was not much blood, but Gimli's heart sank. If that was a trident, if the third spoke had been driven into his friend's neck –

There was no surviving that.

"Boromir!" cried Aragorn, crashing down to the ground beside the fallen man. Boromir's legs jerked and Gimli gasped, watching as the man's eyes roamed to find them, though his neck stayed still.

"Aragorn," Boromir breathed, before panic took over his tone. "Go, go! They took the little ones, you must hurry!"

Gimli had known that something had happened, that his hobbits were here and now they were not, but to hear confirmation struck him in the gut like a punch from a troll. "Where are they, which way did they go?" he demanded, scouring the trees for any sign of Merry and Pippin, or any of the others.

"Ahead," Boromir said, groaning as he pointed with his left hand to the east. His right arm was pinned beneath him, and there was an ugly red mark on one side of his neck, above the grip of the metal that restrained him. It looked like lash, or a scratch, or a friction burn – Gimli guessed it had come from the grazing of an arrow. Bloodiest was Boromir's face. His nose looked to be broken, and blood smothered his nose and chin.

Though it looked like the bleeding had stopped.

Aragorn took a hold of the staff, bracing himself to pull it up, but the elf stopped him.

"Be careful," said Legolas, scratching away the earth beside Boromir's neck to reveal a metal tip, sharp as a razor. "It is barbed."

"I couldn't stop them," Boromir moaned, his eyes boring into Gimli's with sorrow and regret – and a desperate, unspoken apology. "I tried – there were too many of them, and Pippin…"

"What?" demanded Gimli, fear rising like bile in his throat. "Pippin what?"

Legolas put a hand on Gimli's shoulder, and then bent down to put his hands on either side of Boromir's neck. He pulled up gently, up and back, so that Boromir winced, but his skin was pulled tight, and Aragorn was able to heave the weapon from the ground without splitting open the man's throat. Gimli watched the barbs catch the hands of Legolas, and watched the elf's eye twitch in the smallest flicker of a wince, as blood beaded across the back of his hands. But Boromir was freed, and he let out a shuddering gasp, as he rolled over onto his back, his eyes closed.

"Thank you," he said, "thank you. Pippin – he was unconscious, last I saw him."

Gimli took a deep breath, keeping his voice as even as he could make it. "And Merry?"

Boromir shook his head, slowly sitting up. "I do not know. I am sorry."

"What of Frodo?" Gimli demanded, even as he noticed that the man's arm was bound to his chest with his own belt, and his sleeve was red. He noticed holes, two very visible holes in the Boromir's clothes. And his fear rose. "And Sam? Nelly and Bróin, where are they?"

"I do not know," Boromir repeated, swatting Aragorn's hand from his sleeve. "Do not tend to me! We must find them, we must go!"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, looking most unimpressed. "You have been shot."

Boromir scowled, tugging down his tunic with his left hand. There was a mail coat against his skin, and though it was dented both by the shoulder and below it, there was no bleeding that Gimli could see. "I sought armour in Lórien when Frodo told us of his vison, I was given this. I am in pain, and I am bruised, but I can run. There is not time-"

"Your arm looks awful," pointed out Legolas. "And it is bleeding."

"Then bind it!" yelled Boromir, so loudly that Legolas' eyes widened. "It is not broken, the blade ripped the skin, it did not strike the bone! We have not time for this, we must find the others!"

Silently, Gimli agreed, but Boromir looked decidedly pale.

"Frodo was with you," Aragorn said quietly. "Where is he?"

"I do not know." Boromir's face crumpled from fury to sorrow, and fear, and he shook his head. "I – I came to the decision that I would have to return to Minas Tirith, that we would have to part – I asked for some time to myself. It was perhaps half an hour before I heard Merry and Pippin calling, I do not know."

"They'll've scattered," said Gimli slowly, trying to pretend that his heart was not going so fast it threatened his breathing. "To protect, to protect the quest, they will have scattered. It's the only plan that'd leave the two of them here, alone. The boats – we must get back to the boats, see if they have made it back."

"And if they haven't?" asked Boromir, his voice hollow.

Gimli did not answer. Frodo and Sam would be there, they would have taken the most care, the most direct route. And Nelly and Bróin – why, no one fought better than they did. They would be there, they would be waiting. They had to be waiting.

"Bind his arm, sort his wounds," Gimli said, and the others frowned at him. "I will meet you there."

And then, without a second word, he ran. He could hear them call after him, hear Legolas giving chase, but he did not stop. Merry and Pippin were gone, and going further, and the more time he took running backwards, the further away they became. Gimli had to reach the others. They had to be waiting. He had to know that they were alright. They had to be alright.

His breath came fast and short, and his knees trembled as he drew closer to the beach. He heard no sound of them, saw no sign, and when the shingle sprayed beneath his feet and he skidded to a halt, he found their camp empty.

It looked untouched, but there was a boat missing, and a couple of odd bags, and two packs.

Just two packs gone. Frodo's and Sam's.

And while that meant that the quest was saved, and the orcs had not reached the Ringbearer, it also meant that Frodo and Sam had gone alone towards Mordor. And that two of their party were utterly unaccounted for. Even as relief gave him breath, fear stole it.

"Nelly?" Gimli yelled, his voice cracking at the effort. He pushed it harder, louder, and threw it as far as it could reach. " _Bróin_?"

"Gimli," Legolas said sharply, grabbing Gimli's shoulders again. "You will give away our position."

"Do you think I care for our position?" Gimli spat, but even as he said it, he saw the sense in the elf's words. He swallowed. "Where are they, Legolas? Where are they?"

"I do not know," said Legolas slowly, and the two men came thundering down from the woods. Gimli sniffed, and scowled.

"I thought I send tend to him," he said, nodding at Boromir.

"Our supplies are here," said Aragorn. "And we must decide what to do."

He sat Boromir down on a nearby rock and drew out their medical bag, and Legolas fetched a water skein to help clean the wounds. Gimli's hands began to shake, and he turned away from them.

"What do you mean, decide what to do?"

He could all but hear the looks Aragorn and Legolas must have exchanged behind his back, and he ground his teeth together.

"We cannot go in three directions," said Aragorn. "So, do we follow Frodo, or track Nelly and Bróin, or do we go after Merry and Pippin? Frodo may yet need our help. It was our quest."

 _Damn the quest,_ Gimli thought, but he did not truly mean it. And he was deathly afraid for his young cousin, yet Frodo was free, uncaught, he had a chance. And the littlest ones were at the mercy of devils. Gimli did not know how to verbalise this, but he was spared answering by Boromir.

"I will not rest until I find Merry, and Pippin," the man said, and it sounded like there was a lump in his throat. Gimli turned around, and saw tears sparkling over Boromir's eyes. Aragorn was binding his arm, tightly. "I could not protect them – and I cannot live with that. Go after Frodo if you will. My path is set."

"As would mine be," said Gimli, "but for Nelly and Bróin. We know Frodo's path, we might catch him later, or aid in some other way, but if _they_ have been taken too, do we forsake them, going after Merry and Pippin?"

Even as he spoke, Aragorn finished dressing Boromir's arm, and was securing it to his chest with a sling that would keep it upright and still, even if he ran. The ranger's lips were pursed, and his brow furrowed, and for a moment, Gimli thought that he was being ignored. But then Aragorn spoke, even as he inspected the wound to Boromir's shoulder.

"Our luck may lie in our enemy," he said quietly. "If they have indeed captured Nelly and Bróin, they are likely taking them to the same place they are taking Merry and Pippin. Going after one pair may lead us to the others."

"But Bróin is not a hobbit," said Gimli, and he noticed that his voice was beginning to shake. "They were trying to capture the hobbits, but they did not care to capture me – I fear they have no desire to take Bróin anywhere."

Boromir closed his eyes and bowed his head, and Gimli could see tears on his lashes. Legolas turned away, and Aragorn paused in his labour. Then he shook his head, and turned his heavy eyes to Gimli.

"I do not know," he said softly. "I do not know what to do, Gimli. I do not know who to chase or who to find. Should we not follow Frodo? Put the quest above all else? Yet is that so noble when it may draw more attention to Frodo and Sam, and leave the Bróin and the hobbits to their fates?"

"I cannot leave them," said Gimli, a sob finally breaking through his voice. He found that he did not care. "I am going after my cousins, I am going now, I need just know which way!"

"I cannot give it to you," mourned Aragorn. "For I know it not myself."

"They have yet a chance of escape," said Legolas, in a voice softer than the wind. "Nelly and Bróin – they may not have yet returned. But who has more chance than they of outwitting such hunters? They are clever and brave and skilled – they may yet be fine. But we know of the peril of Merry and Pippin."

"It sounds as though it has already been decided," said Aragorn slowly. "Our path."

No one spoke. No one wanted to be the one to confirm it, to carry the blame if the choice fell ill. So, they shouldered it together, gathering supplies without speaking, scrounging only what items they were sure to need.

"But if we are to go on foot…" Aragorn trailed off, staring at Boromir.

But there was a fire in Boromir's eyes, and he drew himself up tall. The scratches on either side of his neck looked painful, but he made no sign of discomfort. "I will run until my feet rot on the end of my legs, and my lungs shrivel in surrender. If I fall behind, you are to leave me. You are to leave me, and I will catch up if I may."

"Then take this, and eat," said Legolas, passing him a piece of Lembas, and a delicate elven flask. "And have a sip of this. It is not perhaps as sophisticated as the Miruvor of Rivendell, but the Cordial of the Galadhrim has its own merit. Now, if your legs are to rot, they do not have to subject us to the stink of it."

Despite himself, a half-smile was tugged from Gimli's lips, and Boromir gave a small, strangled laugh. He did as he was told, and then passed around the Lembas, and the Cordial, and Gimli felt a little hope take seed in his heart.

At last, they cast the empty boats into the river, and Gimli carved a single rune into the rock that hid what they left behind.

"For when they come back," he said gruffly, catching Legolas' gaze. "Nelly. And Bróin."

Legolas gave a sad smile. "What does it mean?"

Gimli hid his tears with a sad smile of his own. "We made it up. It means Shire."

They would know, if they found it. Nelly and Bróin would know where he had sent them. And if he held onto that thought, his courage would hold stronger against the terror of what might be befalling Merry and Pippin.

It was easier to run after them believing that Nelly and Bróin were not captured. To believe that Nelly and Bróin would get his message.

To believe – to pray – that Nelly and Bróin would get home.

* * *

Tears stung Bróin's eyes, but for the first time in his life, there was no one to hold them back for. He was completely, utterly alone, and it was worse than he could ever have imagined. He was not passing a peaceful evening locked in his room, or seeking solitude on a stroll out of the mountain. There was no one in earshot, no one nearby that he could turn to. And Nelly was gone.

The uruk-hai had taken Nelly, and to Bróin's shame he finally understood what it meant to be frozen in fear. He was afraid, so afraid that if he moved, his body would break entirely. Afraid that if he did not, he would never reach Nelly. That no one would reach Nelly, and she would be left to the mercy of the uruk-hai.

He had heard stories of what orcs did to women. How they would keep them alive longer than male prisoners, what tortures they would inflict to get full 'use' out of their victims, how the women would be forced to bear goblin children –

Bróin let out a sob, and tried once again to move. It hurt so much, every inch of his body was bruised and battered, and he was scared that he was bleeding beneath his skin. His mail had protected him from the piercing nature of the arrows, and stopped the orc blades from hacking into his skin too badly – without it his arm would most likely lie several feet away. But chainmail did little to negate the impact, and the orcs had beaten almost every part of him. His head was pounding and aching, and while his arm was still attached, it screamed in protest when he tried to close his fingers.

 _"Here, my lad," said Bombur proudly, holding up a gleaming shirt of silver rings. "Finest mail money can by, and no less."_

 _"Really?" Bróin asked, unable to stop himself from beaming. The respectful sort of demure smile Nelly would give upon receiving presents still eluded him._

 _"Of course." Bombur laughed, and pinched Bróin's nose as if he were still a child. Grinning. Bróin swatted his hand away. "If we're sending you half way across the world without us, you best believe we're making sure you're safe."_

 _"I thought Mithril was the best mail money could buy," said Bofin, because he had to be pedantic over everything. Bróin scowled at him, but again their father simply laughed._

 _"It would be, if it were possible to buy it. But there's not been enough mithril around to make a full coat since the fall of Moria. So, this is the best you can buy. The best for my boys."_

Bróin could feel broken rings digging into his skin, and the tears broke free from his eyes to burn down his cheeks. There was no one around to hear the word breaking from his lips, but he still felt like a pathetic child, one who could not even control his sobs.

"Adad… Adad…"

He knew that his father was not there. He knew he was alone. But he did not want to be, he wanted to be rescued. To be cradled in the arms of his father or uncle or cousin, to be carried to safety, to be told that Gimli and the others had already got Nelly back. And shame smothered him for even dreaming of it.

 _"Now, Bróin, why did you knock your sister down?" his mother asked, her voice gentle, but very firm._

 _Bróin scowled, unaware that on his young face it looked more like a pout, and kicked his heel against the floor. He shrugged. "She was in the way."_

 _"It is her house too," Marta said, taking Bróin's chin and forcing him to meet her eye. "Bofin said that you also told her girls are boring."_

 _"Bofin's a no-good tattle-tale!"_

 _"Bróin."_

 _Furious, Bróin stomped his foot. "It's true! Girls are just, just damsels in distress! In all the stories they just need rescuing and they aren't any fun."_

 _Marta's eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared into her hairline. "Am I no fun? A damsel in distress?"_

 _Bróin blinked, wondering how she could be so silly. "No, you're not a girl."_

 _"Am I not?"_

 _Bróin sighed, and rolled his eyes. "Ama, you're a woman."_

 _Marta laughed, and pinched his nose. "And you are a very cheeky lad. Listen, Bróin, not all girls are damsels in distress. But those that are aren't always boring, or weak. We all need rescuing sometimes, in one way or another. Sometimes it is very small, like when you needed me to rescue you from tying your shoelaces. Sometimes, it is very big, such as a woman who has been captured by an evil dragon, and cannot escape on her own. You can't always save yourself. As long as you do not wallow in self-pity and revel in being a victim, there is no shame in needing help."_

Though he had slowly come to recognise the truth in his mother's words, Bróin still felt ashamed at his crying, embarrassed that he was calling out for his father like a lost child. He tried to swallow, but there was a lump in his throat.

There was no one to rescue him.

That meant there was no one to rescue Nelly.

And _that_ meant that he had to get up.

He gritted his teeth so that he would not scream, and drew his legs up towards his chest. They felt like metal bars held too long in the forge – battered, brittle, ready to snap, but he dragged his knees into position. He pressed his palms against the ground, and the shingle felt like broken glass beneath him, and then he pushed with all the strength his trembling arms could muster. The left arm screeched in protest, and his chest wept from exertion and pain.

 _"And what in the name of Durin's Balls do you think you're doing?"_

 _Bróin looked up sheepishly at Nori, but it was too late to hide the training sword behind his back. "Nothing."_

 _Jumping down into one of Hlín's Arena's many nooks, Nori snorted. "When it comes to lying you've got nothing on Nelly yet, my lad."_

 _"I wasn't trying!" Bróin protested, and Nori grinned. But his eyes remained serious._

 _"You put that sword down. You're not healed yet."_

 _Bróin rolled his eyes. Everyone kept treating him like a fragile little elf babe – it was just a broken arm! "Dwalin says it's good to push through the pain. That it makes you stronger."_

 _"Yeah, well, Dwalin's an idiot. In an emergency o'course you're going to push through, ignore the pain. But when you're safe, there's no point making things worse. Pain's like a messenger system, from your body to your brain telling you what's wrong. Ignoring the message is the stupidest thing you can do. I don't mean sit around and sulk like a kitten, but you gotta take stock of how you feel. Otherwise, you're going to take a lot longer to heal, I can promise you that."_

Bróin did not want to push through the pain. It was too much, too much to handle, and he knew that forcing on would be the worst thing he could do for his body. If his left arm had not been rebroken, he would be very surprised. But it was an emergency, an emergency where he had less choice than a soldier in the heat of battle. He tucked his feet beneath him, pushed up.

Rose.

Swayed.

Fell.

He screamed as he hit the beach, and for a moment it was pain that paralysed him. It was in his legs and his arms and torso and head – his _head –_ and his back –

But Nelly…

Wiping tears and snot and sweat from his face, Bróin looked around. He stretched out a hand and grabbed an orc spear, and then drove the handle end into the ground. Then he tried again, onto all fours –

Push.

Pull.

Rise.

Stand.

He gasped, his head spinning, and leant heavily on the spear. His. It was his now. It would help him walk. Help him find Nelly.

But which way should he go? And how would he _ever_ catch up with the orcs?

 _That does not matter,_ he thought, _if I don't move now, I never will._

He stooped for his sword, and it took him nigh on a minute to straighten up again. But then he began to walk. Step, move the stick, step, move the stick, step, breathe, move the stick, step…

It was so slow. So painfully slow.

He stopped to breathe, and listened. Something caught his attention, a low groan, and he looked over his shoulder. One of the orcs on the beach was stirring, not yet dead, and fury burnt hotter than the pain. But Bróin paused, and watched the orc give a pained gurgle of his own.

"Curse, curse the scum – where is it? Where is it?" it muttered, squirming and writing while it pawed at its own clothing. "Dead to stay, dead to stay, where is it?"

Transfixed by revulsion and hatred, Bróin watched the creature twist, and was reminded of Bilbo's descriptions of Gollum. But this was an orc, and it let out a cruel laugh of triumph.

"A ha! This'll get you running my lad, ha, ha, ha!" Each 'ha' was like the bray of a possessed donkey, and Bróin saw the orc draw out a flask. It drank a long gulp, and then smacked its lips in satisfaction. Then, it sat up, and Bróin could see its eyes growing sharper. His own eyes widened, and he moved quickly, back across the beach – step, stick, step, stick – and the orc shrieked but he twisted the stick and drove its speared end into the creature's eye.

At once, they both fell, as Bróin's legs gave way, and the orc slumped, dead, to the ground. Bróin grabbed the orc's flask from the ground, and stared at it apprehensively. It was some sort of orc draught, and it smelt foul. The colour was dark, dangerously close to blood, and he dared not think what may be in it. But he had heard rumour of some concoction that orcs would use to swiftly increase their energy, and dull their wounds.

Or it could be poison.

He weighed it in his mind as the flask weighed down his shaking hand.

 _"My motto," said Nori, with Bróin on his back and Nelly on his shoulders, "is that you gotta do what you gotta do. To survive, to help your family, your friends. Whatever you gotta do, do it._ _But remember, don't have more balls than brains."_

For his own sake, he lingered on the edge. It could be blood, it could be poison, it could make him sick. But for his family, for his friends, he raised it to his lips. If there was a chance, a faint hope that he might be able to help Nelly, he would take it.

The second it touched his lips, it burnt, and then seared down his throat hold as scalding tea, and he spluttered and choked. But the hurt lessened, and he could feel his breath deepening, growing easier. He sat up. Grimaced. Took another drink, a longer one. The taste and the sensation were foul beyond belief, but his legs felt fine, and the pain in his torso and legs and head ebbed away to a distant ache. His arm still hurt, but it was no more than he could manage. Swallowing, Bróin grappled to seal the flask, but as he did some of the draught spilled out over his injured arm. It burnt against his skin, and he cried out, but the bruising on his arm lessened, and the agony faded entirely. Eyes widening, he prodded the area, and felt but a dull ache. Quickly, he made sure that what draught was left was secure, and tucked it into a pocket inside his tunic.

He did not know if he could trust this new strength, this respite from the pain. He did not doubt it would be temporary at best, fleeting at worst. All he knew was that now, in this moment, he had the strength to run. He took the spear, and another flask he found on one of the fallen orcs. He found the path, took a deep breath, and pretended that his head was not still spinning.

Then, battered, bruised, and dangerously close to broken, Bróin, son of Bombur, began to run.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, I'm much happier with it today than I was yesterday. As a head's up, if the orc draught seems too good to be true/ very, very potent right now, don't worry, that will be addressed. Our little Bro isn't out of the woods yet – and I wonder just how fast he and Boromir will be able to keep running…?**

 **Please let me know what you thought, I love to know, and I'll see you next time! I hope it will be Monday, but that will depend on how busy I am over the next few days. If it isn't, I'll do my best to be back on schedule the following week! Thank you for reading!**


	49. Chapter 49: The Uruk-Hai

**Thank you so much for the awesome reviews for the last chapter! I really appreciate it. I'm sorry for the delay in this one – work's been crazy, and I found this particular chapter very difficult to write. I think I'm pleased with it now though, so I hope you can forgive the delay (and the typos) and enjoy!**

 **Chapter Forty-Nine: The Uruk-Hai**

 _The whole world was dark, and Pippin could see nothing but smoke and shadows. He was running – or trying to. It felt as though his legs weighed a thousand pounds, and they moved slowly, laboriously, but gracefully, like a great pendulum going back and forth in slow motion. Merry drew further ahead, further away, and Pippin could not see him anymore. He could only hear his frantic breathing, and that was growing more distant. He was leaving, leaving Pippin to the darkness, and to the shrieks of orcs behind them._

 _"Merry!" he cried, and his voice was swallowed by the clamour behind him. "Merry!"_

 _There was no sound but the orcs. Merry was out of earshot, out of sight – he was gone, gone, gone – and the smoke was rising, and pouring down Pippin's throat and he could barely breathe._

 _He gasped, and cool air flooded his lungs._

He woke.

At first, he thought that he might still be trapped in a nightmare, for though he could see the twilight world around him, Pippin still could not move his legs. He was trapped on his back, staring up at a starless sky, and he quickly realised that his legs were bound, firmly, at the ankles and the knees, and his wrists were lashed together with a rope that was cruelly tight.

 _What happened?_

He remembered running through the woods – he remembered why. And he remembered that at one point, the orcs had got their arms around Merry, and sent their arrows into Boromir.

 _Please let Boromir be alright,_ he prayed, even as panic began to creep around him. _Please say Merry got away…_

Something blocked his throat – fear or tears, he did not know – and Pippin glanced around. There was a forest of orcs around him, more than he could count, sitting and standing and taking with cruel, guttural voices that made his skin crawl. To his surprise, many of the words spoken were in the Common Tongue, and the use of Black Speech was fleeting. From what he could hear, Pippin thought it likely that there were members of several different clans here, and that they could not, perhaps, understand each other's orc speech.

He had to get away. He had to get away right now.

Trying to think practically, Pippin squirmed and wriggled, testing the ropes that bound him to see if they had any room to give, but they were so tight that all they gave him were friction burns. Nearby, a voice gave a harsh laugh.

"Save your strength, little fool. We'll find a use for your legs soon, just you wait." It was an orc, a great, dirty creature to the right, sitting so close that he could strike Pippin without shifting in his seat. There were more around him, next to him, and some were so huge that he was sure they would tower over even Aragorn and Boromir. Were these the uruk-hai, the tall ones? Pippin did not know. He did not care. What they were did not change the power they had over him. They were free, and armed, and many.

He was bound, defenceless, and alone.

"Bah! Why find use for them? If I had my way, you'd already wish you were dead," said another orc, with a voice bitter as acid in an open wound. The speaker stood, and stooped over Pippin, bringing his face very close to the young hobbit's. Paralysed with fear, Pippin could do nothing but watch as the orc bared his fangs, and touched the tip of a wicked, black blade to the base of Pippin's neck. "I'd make you squeak, you miserable little rat. Just you lie still and quiet, or I might just forget my orders and give you a nice bleed to go with that bruise on your head."

"Leave him _alone_!"

Pippin's heart leapt and he looked to the right so quickly that the tip of the knife scratched his throat.

 _Merry._

His cousin was just a few feet away, but before he had been hidden by the orc that now leered over Pippin. Now, Pippin could see him, and he could see fury burning so fiercely in Merry's eyes that his own fear grew stronger.

"Don't you touch him," Merry growled, and Pippin's heart raced so fast that it hurt. Though a small, selfish part of him was grateful that he was no longer alone, Pippin was horrified that Merry was here. If Merry got hurt, if Merry died –

If Merry got hurt or died because he was trying to protect _Pippin –_

The seated orcs gave hoots of laughter, but the orc with the knife scowled, and grabbed Pippin's neck, pressing the blade into his mouth. Pippin froze at the bitter taste of iron, and the touch of the sharp serrations pressing against his skin. With one flick of the orc's wrist, Pippin would have an ear-to-ear smile forever. "Oh? And what'll you do if I don't? You hold your tongue, Shire scum, or I'll rip his out." The orc stood, and strode back to its seat, pausing only to kick Merry in the chest before he sat down, and blocked him once again from Pippin's view. "I still don't see why we don't just kill 'em."

"No time," said one of the others. "No time to kill 'em properly."

"But they're a nuisance," said the orc with the knife. "Evening's coming on – we'll be moving soon, and they're a curse to carry. I say kill 'em and be done with it."

"Kill them," said a deep voice, "and I will kill you. 'The halflings are to be brought in alive, unspoiled, and as captured.' Those are our orders, and I will make sure they're followed."

"They are my orders too," said another new voice, this one soft, and nothing less than evil. "The prisoners are not to be searched or plundered."

"But not our orders!" protested one of the earlier voices. "We came from the Mines, we came to kill, and avenge, and then go back North. Why are they be wanted alive? Do they make good sport?"

Pippin heard a thud, and Merry grunted. They had kicked him again. Pippin winced.

 _Why couldn't Merry have got away?_

"They have something. The master wants it for the war – an elvish weapon," said the deep voice. "And as for going North, you can wish again. I am Uglúk, and I give the orders here. We return to Isengard by the shortest road."

"Is Saruman master of the Great Eye?" said the evil voice. "We should go back to Lugbúrz at once."

"I don't think so," snarled Uglúk. "You would take the prisoners and the glory, but without us you'd all have fled like the swine you are. _We_ are the fighting Uruk-hai! _We_ slew the great warrior, and took the prisoners. We are the servants of the White Hand: the Hand that gives us man's flesh to eat. We have come out of Isengard and we will return there. I am Uglúk. I have spoken."

Pippin's heart picked up speed. Slew the great warrior? They could not be talking about Boromir? Could they?

 _Of course they could._

"My, my, my," said the evil voice. "I wonder how they would take your words in Lugbúrz. They might think your shoulders need relieving of a swollen head, or that your precious master grows too tall in his stone tower. I think they might agree with me, with Grishnákh, their trusted messenger. And I say that Saruman is a treacherous fool, and his folk all the more so, but the Great Eye is upon him, and we, its true servants, will be rewarded come the end of the fight. Come lads! How do you like being called swine by the slugs of a dirty little wizard – one who feeds his slaves orc flesh, I don't doubt!"

Great yells and clamouring rose around them, and Pippin heard blades being drawn. The seated orcs were all on their feet now, and clutching weapons, and he could see Uglúk and Grishnákh, and put hideous faces to the names. Uglúk was large, larger than any orc Pippin had ever seen, but Grishnákh was more twisted, with arms that hung almost down to his ankles. Smaller goblins crowded towards Uglúk, but they seemed hesitant to attack, and when Uglúk let out a yell, Pippin could see why.

At once, a dozen uruk-hai charged to their leader, but already Uglúk had beheaded two of the braver goblins. In almost the same moment, Grishnákh melted away into the darkness, and the smaller goblins scattered like ants. Another head went flying through the air, and the body landed on top of Pippin. It was the guard – the one with the awful knife who had kicked Merry, and that awful knife was still in his hand. And pressing into Pippin's arms.

"That's enough!" shouted Uglúk. "We'll have no more nonsense – put down your weapons. We go west from here, and we'll go down the stair, and to the downs, and the forest, and we will march day and night!"

A thought sprang into Pippin's mind, and he glanced around. There was still a ruckus around him, the orcs were slow to quell, and for a moment he was unwatched. He swallowed, and shifted so that the rope around his wrists was pressed against the edge of the blade. Hardly daring to breathe, he began to saw through the knot as best he could. He knew he would have mere seconds, but the knife was sharp, and the dead hand held it in place. It sliced through the cord, and then through Pippin's forearm, but that was just a scratch, and Pippin had more important things to worry about.

As deftly as his shaking fingers would allow, Pippin formed two loops with rope and knotted it, slipping his hands back through. He gave an experimental tug, and they stayed in place.

Pippin let himself breathe.

It still looked as though his hands were bound, and at a glance it still looked tight, but he would be able to worm them out of the rope if he had the chance. That was something.

That was something.

He pushed the corpse off of him and looked to the right, but he could not see Merry through the legs of their captors. He could not see Merry at all.

"Pick up those prisoners," called Uglúk. "But no games! If they're dead when we get home, you'll be dead too!"

To be honest, Pippin did not find those orders all that comforting. An uruk hoisted him into the air like a sack of potatoes, and put its head through Pippin's hastily retied hands. Its claws felt like iron nails digging into Pippin's arms as the uruk dragged them down, stopping only when Pippin's face was crushed against its neck. The claws of the uruk dug into his arms like iron nails, and Pippin squeezed his eyes shut as they jolted forwards.

He half expected memories of Mirkwood to arise, to drag him back into the past as they had done before, but they did not – at least not in the way that he was used to. He was not surrounded by his memories, nor was he thrust into reliving his nightmares. Instead, he thought of his Papa, and his Fíli.

What Pippin had been through in Mirkwood was nothing compared to what they had endured – the exhaustion, the hunger, the torment. Fíli had been but hours from death when they were found, and though his injuries were less, Paladin had not been far behind. Yet they had survived. They had protected each other, carried each other.

If Fíli and Paladin could escape, there was hope for Merry and Pippin too. It was not a very big hope – Pippin was sure that there were more orcs here, and they were caught up in an awfully big mess, but it was hope all the same, and he clung to it with all that he had.

At some point he must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, he was woken by being thrown to the ground. His eyes flew open as his back hit the stone, and he could not help but cry out, but he barely had time to land before an uruk loomed over him.

Uglúk.

"Get up!" the uruk growled, stooping down to cut the bonds around Pippin's legs. Then, he grabbed Pippin's hands and wrenched him to his feet. Unfortunately, Pippin's legs did not seem to want to cooperate, and he fell straight back to the ground.

The surrounding orcs jeered, and out of the corner of his eye Pippin could see Merry struggling in the arms of another orc, his eyes fixed on Pippin. Uglúk snarled, and seized Pippin by the hair, pulling him back onto his feet. Then, he jammed a flask into Pippin's mouth, and tilted his head back. But the second the foul liquid touched Pippin's tongue, his throat closed up, and he spat it out as quickly as he could.

All over the face of Uglúk.

Well. That had not exactly been the plan.

The orcs around them howled with laughter, and Pippin's heart and courage both began to stumble. Uglúk's hand twisted deeper into Pippin's hair, and shook him roughly. Then, without a word, the uruk clamped Pippin's nose, and jammed the flask back into place. The sentiment was clear. Drink, or you will choke.

With a grimace, Pippin swallowed, and the draught burnt down his throat and seared his taste-buds, but it also sent warmth through his body, and the pain vanished from his legs. He could stand.

The flask was wrenched away, and Uglúk grasped the front of Pippin's shirt, lifting him into the air and drawing the hobbit close to his own, ugly face. Pippin's legs hung uselessly above the ground, but he knew better than to kick. "Believe me, scum, you will pay at the end for that trick. He knows how to make you pay – you'll wish you'd never been born before he's through with you, but when he is, my Master will let _me_ play. So you best behave. My boys are tired of carting you around, so run, little rat. Run. And perhaps if you stay in line, you'll get a swift end on the other side."

With that, he lowered Pippin to the ground, and struck him once across the face, before shoving him into the throng of orcs and striding over to Merry. The older hobbit had learnt from Pippin's mistakes, and he did not fight against Uglúk's awful draught. But he also gave a smile, and winked at Pippin.

"You alright, Pippin? I don't think much of the service here, to be honest."

"No talking!" growled Uglúk, pushing Merry's head downwards. "You'll get service enough to make you sick, before long. Run!"

The pack began to move, clambering down a rocky hill, and to Pippin's dismay Uglúk ensured that there were at least half a dozen orcs between the two hobbits, meaning that Pippin could not even see Merry, let alone speak to him. Every time he tripped, Pippin remembered choking, remembered a noose tightening around his neck with every stumble.

 _Well, there's no noose now. That's something, I suppose…_ he thought, but it did not bring much comfort.

"The scouts have returned!" an orc shouted.

"And?"

"Nothing!" squawked a shriller voice, more like to the goblins of the North. "Just one white-skin on a filthy horse that scarpered at the very sight of us."

Uglúk let out a roar. "Fools! You should have shot him – the horse breeders will hear of us by morning. We'll have to leg it now, double quick."

"But the sun's coming up!" protested the squawker. "We can't run in the sun!"

"You'll run with me behind you," growled Uglúk. "Run, curse you, or you'll never see your filthy holes again."

When they finally reached the bottom of the hill and set foot on green grass, Pippin's heart rose, but the reward of being away from lifeless stone was short lived, as the orcs picked up the pace, and dragged Pippin along with them. Soon, his lungs were protesting, and his empty stomach was gnawing at itself, but the orc liquor still burnt hot in his veins. For now, Pippin could keep up, but he did not think he would manage it forever.

 _Papa managed for days,_ he thought, and his courage rose a tiny notch higher. _And he had not been trained by the dwarves of Erebor._

He wondered who these 'White-skins' were. From what little geography Balin had managed to hammer into his brain, he gathered that they were probably in Rohan by now, or at least thereabouts. He tried to recall what he knew about the people of Rohan, and supposed that he really ought to have paid more attention in school to these things.

 _Merry and Frodo knew them more than well enough, I had no need to know._

 _Yes, well,_ he argued with himself, _you have need know now. So think._

The people of Rohan bred good horses, and they were kin to the people of Lake-town. That should be good – but did Legolas not say that he was unsure of Lake-town's loyalty? That New Dale would stand with the mountain, but that Lake-town might be swayed? And Rohan was even further from Erebor. That was less hopeful.

On the other hand, he seemed to remember something about dignitaries from Rohan coming to the mountain. He could not put his finger on it. When had it been? It was not often that men-folk other than those from New Dale or Esgaroth came to the mountain…

The thought of the mountain stung Pippin like a whiplash across his heart. His dwarven family were so far away, and there was no chance that they would come to the rescue. They did not even know there was anything wrong. Rescue could, perhaps, come through Nelly and Bróin and Gimli – but no. The others would have – _should_ have – gone with Frodo. Had they not promised it, after Moria? Had they not sworn to put the mission above all else?

But perhaps, if these horsemen were allies, there might come a rescue from strangers.

Narrowing his eyes, Pippin forced himself to think harder. Rohan, Rohan…

The only image that came to mind was of a young boy, perhaps ten years old, with hair as gold as Fíli's, and a playful smile. What was his name, Theodore? Theobald? Theodred! That was it. He had played dominoes with Merry and Frodo, and then stood the tiles on end to let Pippin knock them down.

It had been many years ago – they had only recently moved to Erebor, and Pippin was but a toddler. He was rather pleased that he had remembered it at all. And it seemed hopeful. When nobles of any race visited the mountain, it tended to be a good sign if their children were allowed to play with the young hobbits and dwarves of Erebor.

The final factor that Pippin considered was the fact that the orcs seemed afraid of the horsemen, and any enemy of the orcs would be welcome at this point.

 _But how will they know we're not orcs?_ He thought, and his heart sank. _They won't even know we're here. What sign of two little hobbits is going to survive the trample of these orc feet?_

A whip curled around his legs and Pippin gasped, speeding up. An image came to his mind quite unbidden – an image of Aragorn behind them, stooping over their path. Even if Aragorn was following – which he surely should not be – how would even _he_ be able to see any sign of Merry and Pippin?

As if the world wished to agree with Pippin's despair, the ground sloped beneath them into a deep depression, and a thick mist hung close to the ground. The uruk-hai ahead seemed to disappear completely. Once things were a few feet away, they were out of sight.

A wild, very foolish thought burst into Pippin's mind, and before his fear could stop him, he acted on it. He dove to the side, ducking under the clutching hands of his guards, and sprawled onto the grass. Quick as Nelly, Pippin scrambled to his feet and ran, but the orcs were right behind him, and he knew that he had no chance of getting away. He clawed at his collar, ripping the elven broach from his cloak, and he let it fall just as a goblin grabbed his hair from behind and yanked him back.

Unable to stop himself, Pippin yelped, but another orc arm wrapped around his throat, and held him in place as the guard lashed at his legs. Pippin gritted his teeth, but he could not fully stifle his cries, and they escaped each time the whip landed.

"Pippin!" Merry called desperately, but Pippin could not see him anywhere. "Pippin! Stop, please, _Pippin-"_

Merry's voice cut off.

"Enough!" roared Uglúk, storming through the crowd towards Pippin. "That's enough – he's got a long way to run yet. Use the whip as a reminder." Leaning forwards, he took a fistful of Pippin's hair, and lowered his voice. "But believe me, payment is only postponed. I cannot wait until my Master gives me what's left of you, but hear me now – one more move from you, one more toe out of line, and I will flay your little friend alive. You will watch, and join us as we feast on his flesh. Now, move it!" He wrenched Pippin out of the grip of the other orc and threw him back into the throng, and Pippin ran.

He should not have done that.

He should not have done that, he should not have tried – he _knew_ what orcs did to prisoners that disobeyed. He knew what price Ned the Ranger had paid when Pippin, Gimli and Aragorn escaped in Mirkwood. He knew what happened to Fíli after Paladin got free. If something happened, if they thought he had fought back a third time, Merry – Merry –

Pippin gasped back a sob, and kept running. When days and nights bled together, and his feet began to bleed as well as ache, he kept running, and when the world blurred before his eyes and his head span he ran faster. Because he could not stop. He could not let them hurt Merry. Not his Merry.

He could not stop.

Not when his throat rasped with each attempt to breathe. Not when his heartbeat grew so shallow that a hummingbird's heart would drum faster. Not when the world fell into darkness beneath the noon sun.

Pippin lost consciousness before he hit the ground.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! 'The Uruk-Hai' is quite possibly my favourite chapter of any book ever, so it's been a struggle adapting it, but I'm fairly happy with how this turned out. Do let me know what you think if you have the chance, I'd really appreciate it.**

 **Thank you very much for reading, and I hope to see you again very soon – Monday as usual, with any luck.**


	50. Chapter 50: The Dark Days

**Hey there, here I am on an actual Monday again, shock horror! Anyway, I am up rather past my bedtime, so I'll apologise her for the inevitable typos and say that I hope you enjoy it.**

 **I will also say that this chapter may be a little disturbing in places, so heads up. I actually got a lump in my throat while writing it, but I promise its all plot related, and not needless whump. Anyhow, on to the chapter!**

 **Chapter Fifty: The Dark Days**

Still as the stone beneath her, Nelly stared up at the roof of the cave. Water dripped down onto her face, tracking down her cheek like a tear, but she didn't move. Not a single muscle. Around her, the orcs were talking as they rested, and sheltering from the sun outside. Some of the larger uruks had protested that they keep going, but they had been running for nearly two days, and the others refused to move through the sun again without rest. It seemed to Nelly that they thought the sun far hotter than it really was – the goblins had panted beneath it, their tongues lolling out like dogs as the pale light fell cool on Nelly's face.

She missed the sun. The cave was dank, and reeked of orc, and sweat, and blood.

A hunk of stale bread landed next to her face. Her eyes moved towards it, but she kept her body still.

 _Curled up in the best armchair in Nori's living room, Nelly tried to complete the 'hooded knot' that Ori had been teaching her for the thirty sixth time. She was determined to beat Bróin this time, to master the knot before he could – and ideally before he showed up this afternoon._

 _Nelly liked tying knots. She liked having something to do with her hands while she was talking, and even though Mama had said Nelly might start to enjoy the detail of embroidery now that she was fifteen and just entering adolescence, she still found needlework far too finnicky._

 _"Ridiculous… just ridiculous," muttered Nori, from his desk._

 _Nelly glanced up. "What is?"_

 _Nori grinned slightly, and nodded his head at the paper in his hand. "This report. 's a reference for one of the lads that wants to join the watchers, talkin' about the time he was guarding this merchant when they were ambushed by orcs. Turns out this kid's strategy was to taunt the kidnappers. the idiot."_

 _"Well did it work? Did they escape?"_

 _"Aye, well, they were rescued."_

 _Nelly frowned slightly. "Then why was it such a bad idea?"_

 _Nori put the report down and grinned. "See, you hear all these stories about brave warriors who get captured and taunt their kidnappers, or who become cowards and beg for their lives – its damn stupidity. Because all they're gonna do is play right into their captors' hands. Tell me, Nell, if someone had kidnapped you, would you beg, and when? And don't go all heroic and dwarven on me – use your noggin."_

 _Nelly paused, and stared down at the rope in her hands. "I would… I'd beg – if I thought that they might be having second thoughts, or if they looked sad."_

 _"Exactly!" said Nori, snapping his fingers. "You'd think. And if you didn't see a sign of second thoughts?"_

 _"Then I wouldn't beg. But I still think you're being unfair. Fili mocked the orcs, when they took him and Papa."_

 _A dark look passed over Nori's face. "Aye, he did, but it wasn't a very sensible thing to do. A brave thing, very brave, but again, he_ knew _what he was doing. He wasn't tryin' to be all noble, he was trying to get the attention away from the kids, and away from your papa. He knew he'd bear the brunt of the attack, for his trouble, and he did. If it's just yourself you've got to worry about, your best off biding your time. You wanna know how I snuck out of jail so many times?"_

 _Despite herself, Nelly grinned. "How?"_

 _"I waited. Once you're caught, you don't fight, or make a nuisance of yourself. Don't speak, unless they ask you a question, don't move unless they want you too. Don't give them any reason or incentive to pay you any attention. Then, when they ain't looking and you see a chance of escape – a chance that's at least sixty-forty in your favour, slip away."_

 _Nelly considered this for a moment. "Alright… But say it wasn't guards that had you. Say it was orcs. Would you still go all limp and cowardly?"_

 _"I'd be quieter," said Nori gravely, "but that ain't cowardice. There's nothing cowardly against protecting your own skin, Nell. Orcs want to_ hurt _. They want to kill. If they take you alive, they either have orders or a full stomach. You wanna give them every reason to keep you in one piece. You don't put up a fight, you don't smart-arse them, no matter how good a quip you can think of," he winked at her, "you just lie there like a good little rabbit. And you use the most important weapon you have."_

 _Nelly rolled her eyes. "Your brain?"_

 _"Exactly," said Nori, his own eyes glinting. "You laugh now, lass, but a proper trickster uses their brain above all else. Always keep your knives sharp, and your mind sharper. You use your brain, you watch, and you wait. And then, when you see a chance of escape,_ any _chance that's even a slight bit possible, you go for it."_

 _Nelly narrowed her eyes, wondering if Nori was lacing a trick question into their conversation. He was good at that. "You don't wait? Wait until the odds are working for you?"_

 _"Not with orcs, lass," said Nori gently. "They get their paws on you, like I said, they're either saving you for later, either under orders, or, perhaps, meaning to take you back to their holes. Trust me, soon as you're a slave to those bastards, your chance of escape is good as gone."_

 _A chill ran down Nelly's spine and she grinned, trying to lighten the mood. "Well, if I'm all demure and tame like Pearl and they think I'm weak as a rabbit, what'd they want a slave like me for?"_

 _Nori's face changed so quickly that Nelly blinked. His eyes widened, and his eyebrows slid upwards towards the centre of his forehead, and he went past pale and became very green. "I'm not going to think about that, lass, and I suggest you don't, either."_

 _Nelly put down her rope and tilted her head to the side. "Why? I know that they treat their slaves terribly, I know it would be awful, but why'd you talk about kidnapping and fighting, but not-"_

 _Nori shook his head, his face darkening further. It was like a thundercloud swallowing a summer's day. "No Nelly. The things that happen to the male slaves is bad enough, is just – words can't describe it – but for women…"_

 _"Why is it worse for women?"_

 _Nori closed his eyes. "I'm not – I can't be the one to tell you that, Nell. We're not going to talk about it, alright?"_

 _"Alright," she said slowly. "But then how am I going to know what to do if it happens?"_

 _"It won't," said Nori sharply, and he opened his eyes. "It won't, Nelly, because we aren't ever gonna let something like that happen to you. I swear it. But I mean it, now. Let's talk about something else."_

One of the orcs nearby gave a grating bark of a laugh, and Nelly was dragged forcefully out of the memory.

"Eat it, maggot," the orc said. "You'll need it, soon enough."

Nelly wanted to glare at him, to scream until her throat bled raw, but she kept her face impassive, expressionless, and reached out to the bread. They made no move to stop her, so she took it, and began to eat. It was dry, and past stale, but there was no mould on it yet. She wondered if she would have eaten it anyway. Her stomach was crumbling. The bread made little impact on that.

 _I wonder how long it takes a hobbit to starve to death,_ she thought miserably. _A week? Two? Bilbo managed on scraps in Mirkwood, and Papa lasted a couple of days carrying Fíli without food or water._ It would depend how long they carried her for, if they made her run or not. If they gave her water. Her throat ached at the thought of water.

But they weren't trying to kill her. She knew that, she had known before they had taken her. Her guess was that they were under orders – orcs wanting slaves rarely discriminated by race, and they had been referring to a Master. Of course, the fact that there had been so many attacking the fellowship made it seem very unlikely to be a coincidence, too.

The pain in her throat grew into a lump.

 _Bróin._

She prayed that Gimli had found him, that Merry and Pippin had looped back and tracked him down before he bled too much. She prayed that his armour had held, that he was alright. But every time she closed her eyes, every time her mind tried to escape from the orcs, she saw him dead-like on the rocky beach, bleeding into the shingle, motionless as they left him behind. She saw him among the corpses of their foes, and she try as she might, she could not prevent herself from wondering whether Bróin was a corpse, too.

Nelly took a deep breath and closed her eyes slowly, trying to will away her tears. They would not just sting – they would give her away, draw the orcs' attention. Any emotion, any sign of feeling would make her vulnerable.

A part of her did not care.

She forced herself to return her attention to the conversation around her. If she could figure out where they were going, her chance of escape would be greater. And if she could focus on the orcs, and not on Bróin, her chance of holding in tears was far better.

At first, there was nothing of use to hear. Just jeering and taunting between the different clans of orcs, but after a little while, their talk turned to their path.

"Uglúk's lot went south, caught another couple of rats for themselves. But there ain't no point in catching up with them. Might as well beat 'em home."

"But we're heading through whiteskins' lands, and the horsemen's swords are sharp. There's safety in numbers."

A third orc gave a harsh laugh. "Too scared to run without the Uruk-hai behind you? Bah, I thought as much. Goblin scum."

"it isn't fear!" squawked the second voice. "It's common sense, and that's something you 'uruk-hai' haven't got!"

Growls and snarls rose above the voices, but a louder, deeper voice broke over them all. "Quiet, quiet! We return home by the quickest road. Those are the orders, and I ain't breaking them. Uglúk can look after his own damned prisoners, you hear?" Grunts and nods answered him. "Good. We leave as soon as dusk falls."

"Damned Lurtz," muttered a goblin closer to Nelly. "Thinks he's in charge of the world." The speaker raised his arms above his head in a stretch that cracked his limbs, and then he twisted, and grinned at Nelly. "But he isn't, is he, girl? He ain't in charge of me. And I'm hungry." Nelly's heart picked up, but she fought to keep her eyes from widening, to keep from showing any signs that she felt anything at all. The goblin grabbed her arms and yanked her across the floor towards him, and Nelly gritted her teeth to keep from crying out. But then he ripped her arm up, his teeth closing around her thumb, and Nelly gasp in a breath to scream.

"Oi!" yelled Lurtz, smacking the goblin on the back of the head. Nelly fell backwards as her hand was released, and she clenched her hands into fists, trying not to breathe too fast, trying not to shake. "What you think you're doing, Snaga?"

"The whore's heavy," Snaga whined, rubbing his skull. "Just trying to lighten the load."

"Those were _not_ the orders," growled Lurtz.

"And what were the orders?"

Lurtz' lip curled back to reveal teeth that looked almost serrated. "The Master said to look for the halflings. 'e said there'll likely be more than one, but there's one in particular He wants. This rat, he has something the Master wants for the war, so we bring back all the halflings, alive and unspoiled."

"Is that what he said?" A slow grin spread over Snaga's face, and Nelly swallowed. "That 'he' has something for the war?"

"Yes."

"But we haven't caught ourselves a he. That's a she – a halfling bitch if ever there was one."

Lurtz looked at Nelly, and his eyes narrowed. "I don't know… The Master said to bring all the halflings."

"Well I wasn't going to _kill_ her," said Snaga, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Just have a little fun."

The others were listening now, and Nelly could feel anticipation building in the air. It crept like a spider down her spine, and bit fear straight into her heart.

Lurtz pursed his lips, and then strode over to stand over Nelly. She could not help but cringe back, and he grinned. "Are we sure it's a she?"

"Yes, look-"

"No," said Lurtz, his grin growing. "Are we _sure?"_

Snaga's eyes lit up, and he gave a hacking laugh. "No."

"Then we'd best check, shouldn't we? Before we go any further."

Nelly's toes curled up, and panic flickered through her body fast as a forest fire. And then Lurtz came crashing down on top of her and she cried out, raising her hands above her head. The uruk sat on her pelvis, his weight crushing down onto her, and his knees were on either side of her legs. In almost the same moment, Snaga leapt forward and grabbed Nelly's arms, pulling them back over head and pinning them to the ground. Desperate, she tried to regain control over her breath, but it came quick and fast and fearful, and the orcs laughed.

"Look," they crooned, and the hair on the back of Nelly's neck stood on end. "She thinks she's so brave…"

Lurtz took out a knife, and Nori's words vanished from Nelly's mind. The blade was as long as her arm, and jagged all the way up, and there was dried blood all over the handle. With a growl, Nelly kicked and scrambled her feet, but there was nothing she should do, no target she could hit or weapon she could grab with her toes, not with the weight of Lurtz crushing down on her. No matter how she pulled and thrashed her arms, Snaga held them still, his nails biting deep into her skin and his laugh grating at her soul.

"Wiggle, little mouse," said Lurtz, ripping his knife through the front of her tunic. Imprisoning whimpers behind gritted teeth, Nelly pulled on her arms with all her might, but even when her skin began to tear, Snaga's grip held.

"Go on!" the goblin jeered, digging his nails deeper. "Let the blood flow. You're not going anywhere."

Lurtz ripped off her tunic and leant back, putting on an awful voice of mock concern. "Well boys, it looks like we still can't tell."

"Get off!" Nelly shouted, loud and strong as she could. It did nothing. She knew it would do nothing, but what else could she do? "Get _off_ me!"

Lurtz pressed the knife onto her collar, just above the lacing of the bodice Lady Galadriel had given her. Fear was squeezing the air from her lungs, gripping her tighter than it ever had before, but the orcs just laughed.

And Lurtz tugged on the knife.

The leather lacing held firm.

The uruk frowned, pressing a hand down on Nelly's chest to hold the laces taut, and then he dragged down again, but still it held. He snarled, and barked in Black Speech, and two large uruk-hai came from the shadows and grabbed each side of the bodice, pulling until the laces were lying flat and tight against Nelly's chest. Then, Lurtz slid the knife beneath them, and began to saw upwards. The bottom of the blade tore through her undershirt and caught against Nelly's skin again and again, ripping a raw red line into her sternum, and she could not help but cry out.

And still, the elven leather held.

Finally, Lurtz threw his knife down with a curse, and signalled the others to move back. Snaga paused, but after a growl from the bigger uruk he released Nelly's arms.

"Take it off," Lurtz snarled, spit flying onto Nelly's face. "Take if off, or I'll change my mind about Snaga having your fingers."

Disbelief and terror warred in Nelly's hands, the first numbing her fingers even as the latter made them shake. She knew what it was that had made Nori so green, what horrors orcs wrought upon women, but she had never thought she would be here. She had never thought it would happen to her.

"Now!" roared Lurtz, and Nelly grappled with the knot of the bodice. Her finger fumbled, and slid over the intricate knot, unable to get a decent grip. She stopped, and took a deep breath.

Untied it.

Lurtz grunted and Snaga took her arms again. Nelly's lips began to tremble as Lurtz tore open the bodice, leaving only her tattered undershirt between her skin and the world. Between her skin and the orcs.

"Looks like we have a girl after all," crowed Lurtz, and the orcs laughed. "Untie her hands and get that cursed thing off. It's going to the Master. When you're done, rebind her hands, tighter. And if the sun's still showing, you can have a little fun – but no maiming and no killing. I want her fully functional, for whatever the Master wants. Snaga, you and your boys get first turn."

There was a chorus of protests from the other orcs, but Lurtz roared over them once more, and they fell into a grumbling quiet. Shrieking with glee, Snaga and three other goblins surged forward, and Nelly winced as they sawed through the ropes binding her hands. Two of them grabbed an arm each, holding her tightly as Snaga pulled off her bodice and threw it to Lurtz.

The goblins on her arms began to pull, hard, playing a tug of war with her body until Nelly could not help but yelp, her shoulders burning. Another dug its claws into her back and dragged them down, wrenching another shout from her. And Snaga gave a howl, a sickening sound of pure elation, and clicked his fingers. Once again, Nelly's wrists were crushed together, and again a cord was wrapped around them so tight that it burnt. Snaga pushed her roughly to the ground, and her head hit the stone with a force that sent stars before her eyes. And one goblin grabbed her arms and held them above her head, and each of the others held her legs down.

And then Snaga sat astride her. And began to tug her trousers down.

And Nelly screamed.

And the world seemed to stop.

And all that existed was her scream, and the goblin above her, and what he was about to do.

And all that existed was hell, hurtling towards her.

And the goblin's blood spraying over her face.

And his screeches ripping into the night.

Nelly gasped as Snaga fell on top of her, his eyes wide open and unseeing, and his skull bashed in. His hand was still caught in his own belt. The orcs were shouting, roaring and shrieking, and the clawed hands around Nelly's limbs released. Rocks, the size of crab apples, were soaring into the cave, crashing into the goblins and orcs with enough for to break their bones.

The uruk-hai surged outside, all save Lurtz, who wrapped his arm around Nelly's neck and hoisted her up from the ground. He shifted his grip so that she could breathe, holding her instead around the chest, and Nelly shifted her legs and hips, trying to pull her trousers back up without the use of her hands. Her eyes stung, and a small gasp of a sob escaped her, and she could not do it. She was stuck in the arms of an uruk with only her underwear, and with her trousers around her knees.

 _It really can't get much worse,_ she thought, but even as she did there was a triumphant hoot from the orcs, and a cry that she knew. A cry she knew very, very well.

 _No…_

And the goblins returned, dragging a new prisoner with them, a prisoner with a rock still clenched in his hands. Nelly's eyes widened.

 _Bróin._

He looked half-dead – his eyes were both shadowed by dark bruises, and there was blood and bruises over every part of him she could see, and despite the fury in his eyes, terror shone there too.

 _What did you_ do, _Bróin?_

"Well," said Lurtz, sounding rather surprised, "he lives. We left you for dead two days ago, boy. How did _you_ catch us – did you have help?"

Bróin said nothing, but his eyes locked on Nelly's.

They punched him in the stomach and he choked. Nelly winced.

"I asked you a question," snarled Lurtz, pressing his knife against the cuts he had already made to Nelly's sternum. "Answer me, or I'll rip her open. Don't think I'm bluffing – I can keep her alive for the Master."

"Ran," Bróin croaked, and his voice sounded as though he had swallowed bucket of sand. "I ran."

"Here!" one of Snaga's goblins cried, tugging a flask from Bróin's belt. "He stole our grog!"

Lurtz laughed, low and dangerous. "Did you, little dwarf? Hah! No wonder you could run. The goblins of the mines have their energy draughts, and the scum of Mordor have their balms, but only we of the White Hand have the Fire Draught. Our Master is wise beyond all your lords, and skilled beyond your pathetic grey wizard ever was. Slain in the mountain – bah! Never would you see Saruman fall in such a way. He blended all the draughts of health and healing known to orc, and the Fire Draught is what let this dwarfling run. Well, you wanted some sport, boys. Leave the bitch, for now. Play with the little dog."

 _No_ , Nelly thought, desperately, but she knew that if she screamed they would know it hurt her, they would hurt Bróin more, but already they were kicking and punching and one took a knife and drew it back –

" _No_!" she screamed, her voice breaking free of her will. "No, leave him _alone,_ please, please!"

It was happening all over again, but this time they would not leave it. She knew they would not leave him, they would kill him, and they would make her watch. Bróin was not a halfling.

She grabbed Lurtz's arm, her bound arms burning with the effort, and clawed at him. "Please, stop it, please, please, I'll do what you want, I'll do whatever you want, please, _please!"_

Lurtz laughed. "You have nothing to give, little mouse," he crooned. "Anything you have, we'll take from you. Anything we want from you, you will do. You will break. And he does have something to give. My men've had nothing but stale bread for days. They're hungry for some fresh meat. Oh, don't cry, mouse. You can have some too."

Bróin was thrown to the ground and the orcs fell down upon him, and one of the uruk-hai grabbed his hair and pulled his neck back, pressing his knife against Bróin's throat.

 _"Bróin!"_

And the uruk stopped. And stared.

"What?" barked Lurtz. "What is it?"

"This," the uruk grabbed one of Bróin's braids, sawing it off in a heartbeat, and tossing it to Lurtz. "Ain't that the symbol the Master sent to the halfling land?"

Panting, Nelly craned to see what Lurtz had caught in his other hand, and saw that it was the largest bead in Bróin's hair. The bead that deemed him the son of a lord, and named him son of Bombur.

"It is," growled Lurtz, and an awful smile spread across his face. "Well, who'll be the Master's favourite when we fulfil two missions?"

A great, clamouring roar shattered the air, and Nelly felt her tears escape her as she looked desperately at Bróin. A single drop of blood was trailing down from the knife to his collar bone.

Was she going to watch him die?

Because if she did, Nelly would do everything in her power to ensure that the orcs brought back no living prisoner.

"Dwarf," barked Lurtz. "Who is your father? Name, and title."

In the silence of the seconds that followed, Nelly begged Bróin with all the thought she had. _Just answer, just answer, don't let them hurt you, please, Bro, please…_

"Bombur," Bróin croaked. "Lord Bombur of Erebor."

"Would you look at that? A lordling and a halfling bitch in one day? Give him the Fire Draught again," ordered Lurtz. "Heal up his head, and anything else you might've broken. We'll get a good sum for the High Lord's son, and a better one if he's brought in alive. So keep him alive. But make him run some more. He's good at running, and the sun's sinking."

Nelly watched with equal horror and relief as the goblins poured a thick, dark liquid down Bróin's throat, and some of the tension eased from his limbs. And the bleeding from his neck faded away like a nightmare in sunshine. His eyes met hers, and they were alert, and afraid, and somehow defiant and strong.

They bound him even tighter than they had bound her, if the stark skin around his wrists was any indication, and when they moved out, Bróin was driven along with them.

It was days before she saw him again. When the pack moved, they were separated by dozens of foul creatures, and even when Nelly was passed to a fresh carrier like a sack of flour, she was kept away from Bróin. The orc pack ran like some hideous machine, charging through day and night, through woods and plains – so many plains – until they came to the borders of a great, looming forest. It looked straight out of a dwarven fairy-tale – stories far grimmer than their hobbit counterparts. It was only when the third day had passed, and the fourth night broken, that the pack halted for more than a half hour.

"There's trouble behind," Lurtz said as he threw Nelly to the ground. "Uglúk's having trouble with the whiteskins, I don't doubt. Fool. We should be out of it here, but we'll camp in the wood just to be sure. Make no fires – the horsemen have eyes like eagles."

Another goblin grabbed Nelly by the scruff of the neck, and dragged her into the woods, into the centre of the forming campsite. He tied her ankles together, and then secured the ropes from both her ankles and her hands to a nearby tree, before stalking towards the outside again.

And, in the first sign of a blessing in days, Bróin was dropped down beside her. The orc who had dragged him over tied Bróin's ankles, too, and bound him hand and foot to a tree opposite Nelly's. His face was less than a foot from hers, but they could not touch.

"Are you alright?" Nelly murmured, staring at the odd pattern of bruises on her friend's face – a patchwork of new and old marks.

"Mm," he said, terror in his eyes. "Are you? Nelly, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she insisted, cursing inside as her eyes began to sting. "I'm not the one who they're using for a punching bag. What were you _thinking,_ Bróin?"

He frowned slightly, and she noticed that one of his eyes was bloodshot. Very, very bloodshot. "What d'you mean?"

"You know," she hissed. "In the cave, you shouldn't have done that, you nearly died!"

Bróin's frown deepened, and he shook his head slightly. "No, I had to. I had to, Nelly, they were going, they were going to – I had to."

"No, you didn't," she whispered, furious both at Bróin, and at the tears that were escaping down onto her cheeks. "You, you could have bided your time, come up with a plan-"

"I was," he protested, tears seeping down to join his blood in the dirt. "But then they were going… I couldn't, I couldn't let them do that to you. Not that, Nelly, not to you, I couldn't let that happen, not that…"

Nelly stifled a sob. "Bróin, they nearly _killed_ you. I nearly watched you _die –_ I know what they were going to do, I know, but do you think I would rather you died?"

"Do you think I'd rather live?" he replied hoarsely. He was shaking, badly. "Than watch that? Or hide while it happened? Than know that I didn't stop it?"

Nelly closed her eyes. She was not sure why. Her tears were escaping anyway, and she knew that she should be keeping watch of her surroundings. She needed to be keeping watch over Bróin.

"Would you do differently," he murmured, "if it was me?"

She shook her head slightly, opening her eyes. "No."

For a moment, Bróin paused, sucking on his bottom lip the way he always did when hesitating to speak. Except his bottom lip was not usually split down the middle. "Nell… you forgive me?"

"Don't be stupid," she whispered. "There's nothing to forgive. I love you, Bróin, I love you so much."

He smiled sadly. "I love you, too. I'm scared."

"Me too." She tugged against the ropes, stretching with all her might to try and touch her forehead to his, but even when he stretched too, they were left inches apart. "We're in a right mess."

Bróin gave a watery laugh. "Aye, I reckon so. Nell, d'you think they've found the Shire?"

She swallowed, and glanced away. It had been haunting her for the last few days, too, the detail that had saved Bróin's life. The bead of a lord's child. The bead that the orcs _recognised._

"They've gone after Bodin," Bróin said, his voice cracking, "and the twins. Nelly, they're so little."

"I know," she breathed, meeting his eyes, "but they're not alone, and they're not defenceless. They'll be alright, Bro."

"I always wondered how grownups could make those promises," he said. "It's going to be alright. It isn't, and you know it isn't, but you've gotta say something."

Nelly said nothing, and began moving slowly, testing out her bonds. They were so secure dwarves may have welded them onto her skin.

"Nell?"

"Mm?"

"Can… can you say it again? Just once."

Nelly met Bróin's eyes, and saw her own tears in his. She nodded a little. "It's going to be alright, Bróin. You're going to be fine. We're going to be alright."

Bróin smiled a little, and closed his eyes. "Thank you."

A few moments later, he was asleep. Nelly watched him breathing carefully, but she let him sleep. The orcs were running him into the ground. Why she was not running, she did not know. Perhaps they did not think her capable, or were taking more care of her because she was the one _they_ were ordered to take. But really, she did not care. All she cared about was that Bróin was there, and he was breathing.

And, for now, he was.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter – it was very difficult to write, I have to say. Possibly one of the darkest chapters I've ever had to write, in some ways. I hope that the next one will be a wee bit lighter, though we're obviously not in a particularly happy part of the tale.**

 **I can promise, though that there will be nothing more explicit than this scene in regards to sexual assault in this story. It's not something that I've put in gratuitously, I promise. It is plot related, and unfortunately, there are reasons that dwarven women dress like men on the road, so to speak.**

 **If you have any concerns, either in the story or in real life, please don't hesitate to leave a review or PM me. I don't give spoilers as a rule, but if there's something you're very worried about I don't mind letting you know.**

 **Anyway, I hope that you enjoyed that despite its heavy angst, and I hope to see you next week :D**


	51. Chapter 51: The Rohirrim

**Hello there! Thank you to my lovely reviewers for the last chapter, I do appreciate it. I hope that you enjoy this chapter, as ever please forgive any typos.**

 **Chapter Fifty-One: The Rohirrim**

Never in his life had Boromir been so tired. They seemed to have spent endless days running, and at night they paused only for fear of losing their trail. Aragorn had found hobbit footprints leading away from the heavy tread of the orcs, and a single elven broach lying on the floor, and they had not wanted to miss other such signs.

Gimli had seen the fallen broach as a sign of hope, as evidence that his young cousins had not only been alive, but well enough to run. Though he said little nothing before Gimli to quench the dwarf's hope, Legolas had confided to Boromir that he deeply feared the repercussions for whichever hobbit had made the dash.

For Boromir, it was nothing more than a reminder of his failure.

His shame weighed heavily on his chest, and every time his broken arm made itself known his mind turned to the two little hobbits, and his heart seared with a pain that overshadowed his physical wounds.

He could never have imagined that he would fall so far as to feel such guilt, but he deserved every ounce of the suffering that was wracking his soul.

First, he had betrayed Frodo – threatening their quest, cursing the halflings who had become so dear to him, and attacking the very hobbit he had sworn to serve and protect. The fact that Frodo had offered understanding and forgiveness made it no easier – indeed, it simply made Boromir's betrayal all the more appalling.

And then, after he had promised to do all he could to redeem himself, he had stolen the rest of Frodo's companions from him. He had let a band of orcs steal away their company's youngest and most vulnerable members, and he had forced the others to make the decision to abandon their quest to rectify Boromir's failings.

Or attempt to.

They had no proof that they were not chasing corpses, that Boromir had not cost Merry and Pippin their lives. All that they suffered now was on his shoulders, and their deaths should be on his head.

Now, he was failing again. The others ran ahead, and Boromir was falling further and further behind, his wounds and his mortal blood slowing him. He was no elf or dwarf, nor even one of the Dúnedain, and for two days he had been fuelled purely by his fear for Merry and Pippin, and his guilt, and his determination to stand by his loyalty.

But now, two leagues into Rohan, it was not enough. His legs gave out beneath him, and he hit the ground with a thud that sent screaming pain up his arm. No shout escaped his lips, but he groaned, and the elf heard, turning and calling to the others to stop. Boromir scowled, gritting his teeth and pulling himself back to his feet as the trio ran back towards him.

"Go on," he spat, staggering until he could stand, "go on! Do not wait for me, I will follow."

"You are wounded," said Aragorn breathlessly. His face was wrought with concern, a concern that Boromir did not deserve. "We have been careless. You have been pushing too hard, my friend, you should have spoken."

"Do not worry about me!" protested Boromir, though his lungs wheezed at the effort of speech. "We are falling behind."

"It is true," said Legolas grimly. "but in your state, Boromir, you will not catch us up. Nor will we catch the orcs."

"Then," said Gimli, managing to keep his voice hot despite his panting breaths. "What do you propose we do? By Durin… I hate cross country…"

Legolas glanced at Aragorn, his eyes narrowing a little as though he was analysing. Then, he nodded at Boromir. "You must swallow your pride, my friend."

A sense of dread crept up Boromir's spine. "Why?" he asked slowly.

"I will carry you."

"No," said Boromir, shaking his head at once. His denial had nothing to do with pride. "No, you should leave me behind – you _must_ catch the uruk-hai."

"We are not leaving you behind!" protested Aragorn, putting a hand on Boromir's good arm. The concern was so undeserved, so misplaced that it hurt. "Come, my friend, Legolas-"

 _"No._ No, leave me, _"_ insisted Boromir, his eyes searing with tears that he would not shed – he had no right to cry, or wallow in pity. No right. "Please – I am not a burden worthy of being carried."

"What are you talking about?" said Aragorn, frowning deeply. Gimli and Legolas exchanged looks of confusion, and before he could stop them, the words began to tumble from Boromir's mouth.

"I tried to take the ring. That is why Frodo and I were separate." Unable to stand the shock on their faces, and dreading the moment it turned to disgust and fury, Boromir hung his head. "Something overtook me, I knew not what I was doing, but I tried to take it from Frodo. I could not, thank the Valar, he got away, and he – When I came to my senses I found I had done him no harm, but it was too late, I knew it. I resolved to go to Gondor, to go where I could not hurt him, and where I might redeem myself, and he left me to my thoughts and headed back to camp. At least, that is where I thought he went… But I did not redeem myself. Instead I was overpowered, and I let the orcs carry his kin away. It is my fault. Leave me here. I do not deserve the aid. Leave me, and find Merry and Pippin. Please."

There was silence, but he could not bring himself to look at the faces of his companions. He could feel his legs shaking, begging him to fall again.

"Frodo left you alive? Well?" asked Aragorn harshly, and Boromir nodded, looking up and meeting Aragorn's eyes. They were unreadable, clouded and cold as the sea.

"I swear, I did not hurt him. I asked to be alone, he walked away… I am sorry. I am so sorry."

"Legolas," said Gimli, who would surely – and rightfully – be the most furious of all. "Pick him up before he says anything else. I'd do it myself, but I'm dwarf enough to admit that he's too big – I'd trip over his arms, or drag his legs on the ground. You've got the height, laddie, if not quite the stamina of sturdier folk."

Stunned, Boromir stared at the dwarf. There was a storm in Gimli's eyes, and his face was solemn as a mourner, but there was no hatred, no loathing that he could find. "Did you not hear what I said?"

When Gimli spoke again it was with the same tone as before, an iron calm that seemed to thrum with threat and anger, yet maintain control. "Aye, and it's a problem, but we are wasting time. We'll discuss it later. Let's go."

With that, Gimli turned, and began to jog onwards. With a pensive expression Boromir could not truly read, Aragorn nodded – first at the elf, then at Boromir. And then, he ran after Gimli.

"Come," said Legolas softly, turning his back to Boromir. "Get on my back. That way I can run more easily. Time is wasting."

Time. He had cost them so much of it already. Boromir clambered onto the back of the elf, clinging to him like a weary child. His shame grew stronger, something that he had not thought possible.

Hours passed, and bled into another night, a darkness that brought naught but nightmares, and more restless waiting. The day crawled into being beneath a blood red sky, and Legolas picked up Boromir once more. They were well on their way into Rohan now, and Boromir's hope was bleeding away. Without the pain of running, there was nothing to drag his mind away from the hell that Merry and Pippin must be going through. Nothing, that was, except the dread of not knowing what had happened to Nelly and Bróin, and the fear that Frodo and Sam had not got away at all.

Then, before noon, Legolas stopped in his tracks.

"There are horses coming," he said, and Aragorn and Gimli halted. "Over the hill. Can you hear them?"

Boromir strained his ears, and indeed he heard a distant rumble, the thunder of approaching hooves.

"I can hear them," said Aragorn, and Gimli reached for his axe.

Unheeding of the man clinging to his back, Legolas sprang up to the top of the hill, and peered into the horizon. Boromir squinted over his shoulder, and saw nothing but a blur moving towards them.

"They are sixty," said Legolas, "with bright spears and great helms. Many have hair of gold, including the leader."

For the first time in days, Boromir's heart lifted. "Rohirrim," he murmured.

"Do we hide? Get out of the way?" suggested Gimli.

"No," said Aragorn, jogging up to join Legolas. "We will wait. We may receive news."

They headed to a nearby boulder, and Boromir jumped back onto his own aching feet. When the thunder of the hooves was loud as battle, and the riders were all but upon them, Boromir stepped out from behind the rock and held out his hand in greeting.

The leader of the men pulled his horse to a halt with a cry in the tongue of the Mark, and the others spilt around the hill, surrounding the four hunters in a matter of moments. Their spears were lowered, pointing towards the strangers, but Boromir felt safer than he had in weeks. Gimli and Legolas stood with their backs pressed against each other, but Aragorn seemed unperturbed, and Boromir's face cracked into a smile when he saw the face beneath the helm of the leader.

"Eómer," he said. "I am glad to see you. How goes life in the Mark?"

A ripple of whispers rove around the riders, and the nephew of Théoden removed his helmet. Surprise was written into his face, but Boromir could not help but notice that the young lord looked considerably more careworn than he had when they had met, last Summer. Though they had spent but an evening together, along with the good-hearted prince Theodred, and the reserved Lady Eówyn, Boromir had got on very well with all three of the heirs of Rohan, and it grieved him to see such darkness in Eómer's eyes.

"Boromir!" the lord said, and the men began to whisper all the more. "It is good indeed to see you. Your horse returned rider-less nigh on a week ago. We knew not what to think."

Despite the turmoil around him, Boromir was rather pleased to learn that his trusty old horse had indeed found his way home, and he gave a small smile to Legolas. "I believe his safe return is largely owed to my companion, Legolas, son of the Elvenking in Mirkwood. When we were forced to part, he put a blessing over the horse that he might find his way home."

"Indeed?" Eómer raised his eyebrows and stared at the other three. "If that be true we are grateful, though I have heard little of such things outside of children's stories. Who are your other companions?"

"I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn," said the man with a bow. "I have ridden with your people in the past, though under a different name."

"Is that so?" Eómer said, staring carefully at the Dúnadan.

"Aye, he has a habit of doing that," said Boromir, diffusing a little of the tension with a smile. "I met him under the name Estel, when we were but children. I knew not his true name until this past year. As for our dwarven companion, this is Gimli, son of Glóin, High Lord of Erebor. All three are dear to me as brothers, and most trustworthy, I can assure you. Tell me, how fares Rohan?"

A cloud fell over Eómer's face, and the men shuffled restlessly on their horses. "Ill," he said. "Our lands are under siege, though some of the king's advisors are shielding his eyes to them. Théoden is failing to recognise friends from foe, and it has grown worse since winter. Open battle broke out at the Fords of Isen, five days ago. There many were slain, and the son of the king among them."

Boromir's heart sank further, and he understood at once why darkness had descended upon Eómer. He and Theodred had behaved as brothers. "I am deeply sorry to hear of it. That is a great loss to Rohan, and indeed to us all."

Eómer nodded once, and lost no hint of composure. "Tell me. What are you doing in these lands, on foot and so armed?"

"Hunting a pack of uruk-hai," said Gimli, in a tone that clearly said he thought this conversation had gone on long enough.

Eómer barked a laugh, looking at Boromir as though expecting a joke to follow. Boromir did not blame him. He knew that, despite their weapons, they were rather poorly equipped to face Saruman's uruk-hai. But Boromir shook his head a little, and Eómer's eyes narrowed.

"They took two of our friends captive," said Aragorn softly. "We have no choice but to follow as we are, as you yet see us. For four days we have run, from Tol Brandir."

"Tol Brandir?" cried Eómer, looking to Boromir for confirmation. "In four days, on foot?"

Boromir nodded, and for the sake of brevity neglected to say that, in his case, it had not always been on his own feet. "We had no choice. Please, my friend, is their aught you can tell us?"

"I can tell you that your journey is ended," said Eómer slowly. "The uruk-hai are no more. We slaughtered them in the night, but we saw no prisoners."

"None?" choked Gimli, going very pale. "There were hobbits, two hobbits with them, did you not see them?"

Eómer began to shake his head, and Boromir's heart spasmed painfully. If Merry and Pippin were not with the orcs…

"They would be small," said Aragorn, a hint of desperation in his voice. "Only children, to your eyes."

"I saw no halflings, nor children, but the night was dark. Of those we did see, we left none alive," said Eómer, regret colouring his tone.

Boromir closed his eyes. Had Merry and Pippin, those two loyal, playful, _innocent_ little hobbits been cut down moments from rescue, cut down and killed with their captors?

"I am sorry," Eómer said. "These are dark times."

"Don't," growled Gimli, and Boromir glanced at him. The dwarf was trembling, and he was shaking his head. Despite the shameless tears in his eyes, he managed to make sound threatening. "Save your pity – they may yet be alive, there is still hope. But if, if you killed them, I swear by all that grows on this earth I will-"

Biting back tears of his own, Boromir put a hand on Gimli's shoulder. The Rohirrim were growing restless, and their muttering suspicious. "Peace, Gimli. You know they meant no harm to Merry and Pippin."

"That's all well and good, unless you want me to tell that to their corpses," spat Gimli, tears spilling shamelessly from his own eyes.

Eómer dismounted, and his men were stunned into silence. He walked towards them, and looked Gimli straight in the eye. "If we have slain your friends without knowing it, then my heart aches to hear it, and I am deeply sorry. It was not knowingly done, I can assure you. But I doubt that it happened in such a way, we have better night eyes than most around these parts, and none escape our nets, once we set them. Perhaps your friends were carried off ere we caught their captors, or perhaps they escaped. You are right – they may yet be alive. We will lend you horses – provided you return them to Meduseld in Edoras when your task is done."

"My Lord," protested one of the riders, in a voice that was both deferent and indignant. "These are the steeds of our fallen kin – it is well, perhaps, that these lords of men may ride them, but whoever has heard of a horse of the Mark being gifted to a dwarf?"

"No one," said Gimli stoutly, even as Boromir glared at the man who had spoken. "And no one ever will. I would sooner walk than sit on so big a beast, be it free or begrudged." And with that, he folded his arms and gave a glare that put Boromir to shame.

"Come, Gimli, if you do not ride, you will hinder us," said Aragorn. "And every hour lessens our hope."

Gimli looked up at Aragorn as though the man had struck him square in the face, but Legolas patted his shoulder.

"Come, Gimli," he said. "You shall ride with me. Then you will not need to borrow a horse, nor be troubled by one. Nor need you worry about falling off."

"Falling-" spluttered Gimli, turning from white to red in a mere moment. "I do not worry about falling – insolent little – bah! Get me on the damn horse, go on!"

Despite their grief, Aragorn and Boromir shared a grin. Eómer whistled, and three horses were brought over. A large, dark grey horse by the name of Hasufel was leant to Aragorn, and a beautiful beast with a coat as gold as the hair of the Rohirrim was brought to Boromir.

"His name is Baelfot," said Eómer, as he passed Boromir the reins. "Firefoot, in our tongue. I was never sure the name suited him – though indeed he runs as well as any, he is a rather docile thing."

The third horse brought to them was named Arod, a smaller, white horse, who was quite clearly rather feisty. Boromir could not help but be pleased he had received the calm Baelfot – he did was sure his wounds would not take too kindly to Arod's bucking. But Legolas asked the men to remove the horse's take, and mounted him without a saddle, nor reins, and at once, the horse was still.

With a smile, Legolas patted the horse's neck, and Arod let out a satisfied whinny, standing very calmly as he waited to Aragorn to lift Gimli onto his back.

"Well," Eómer murmured to Boromir, staring at the scene. "Now I believe more in what you said to me of elven blessings."

"I believed little of it either, but I cannot deny what I have seen." He put his good hand on Eómer's arm and squeezed it. "Thank you, my friend. If we had more time I would tell you of our travels in full, but we are both pressed as it is. Perhaps we will see you in Edoras, whence we bring your horses home."

Eómer gave a smile, though it was but a shadow of the grin Boromir had seen the previous year. "Aye, I would like that. Your companions are most intriguing, and I doubt not that your adventures will be both interesting and useful to hear. Go now. Make haste, and search for your friends. But do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands."

It was getting harder to keep composed. Grief and dread were surpassing his guilt, and his throat ached with unshed tears, but Boromir nodded, and bowed low. "Thank you, my lord."

He mounted the borrowed horse with a little difficulty and glanced at the others, who all seemed ready to depart. Gimli was shifting, and muttering quietly under his breath, holding onto Legolas' cloak with white fingers.

"You sound much like Samwise Gamgee on a boat," said Legolas lightly, and a fractured smile twitched over Boromir's lips.

When they were ready, Eómer mounted his own horse. "We piled the orc carcasses and burnt them," he said, gesturing to a pillar of smoke rising on the horizon. "I wish you luck."

And with that, they departed.

Boromir was relieved to be riding, to be borne by a horse rather than on the back of his friends, but it was still rather uncomfortable. And as his eyes watched the smoke on the horizon, all but the last drops of his hope drained away.

What hope did Merry and Pippin have? The eyes of the Rohirrim were sharper than most men, and if they had neither seen nor slaughtered the hobbits, where were they? Already dead, tossed aside or devoured? The thought sent a shiver down Boromir's spine, and he dug his heels into the horse.

"They say your name is Firefoot," he muttered, his voice thick as he urged the beast to go faster. "Then live up to your name, and make haste now."

Baelfot tossed his head and lunged forward, speeding towards the plume of smoke as though it was a beacon calling him home. He overtook Arod and Hasufel, and Boromir's heart beat faster with every fall of his hooves.

At last, he drew the horse to a halt before a smouldering pile of ash and bone, his nose curling at the stench. He dismounted, patting the horse's flank for a moment, and then staggered towards the remains of the fire as fast as he could, staring around at the carnage. He could see no hobbits. Not even a sign of them.

But what had he been expecting? Merry and Pippin laughing, and toasting sausages over the remains of the fire? They were dead, most likely, and if they were not dead they were gone.

The others arrived, and began to scour the ground too, with Gimli prodding at the fire with his axe.

"Merry?" yelled Boromir hopelessly, his voice echoing uselessly. "Pippin?"

A strange sound caught Boromir's attention, and he turned to look at Gimli. He was holding something in his hands, and then he had fallen to his knees, and let out a wail that sent Boromir to his own knees.

 _No…_

Legolas sprang over, and his face crumpled. "One of their belts," he murmured, and he put a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "I am sorry, my friend."

"They shouldn't have _been_ here!" Gimli cried, "I should have listened to you, Legolas, we should have sent them _home."_

Legolas said nothing.

And Boromir let his tears fall. A sob wracked his body, and it hurt, and he sobbed again, and again, digging his nails into his arm so that it might hurt nearly as much as his heart did, praying for it to distract him, a distraction he did not deserve.

If ever he saw Frodo again, he would simply hand him a sword, and kneel before him, and beg him to do whatever he saw fit.

"Wait," said Aragorn, at first so quietly no one heard, but then he spoke louder, more sharply, "wait! There are tracks here, hobbit tracks that lead away from the battle!"

Boromir froze, and Gimli looked up.

"What did you say?" croaked the dwarf. "Aragorn-"

"There was a hobbit here, and another here, and they crawled," said Aragorn quickly, walking towards the trees. "They were bound, but their bonds were cut – and they ran. They ran into the forest."

"Fangorn," breathed Legolas.

"They ran?" Gimli choked. "Aragorn, they ran?"

"They ran!" Aragorn nodded, a wild grin on his face. "They left this battle alive!"

Boromir could not believe it. His heart was lifting, but he could not let it – if this was another false hope –

"Right!" cried Gimli, sounding almost hysterical with joy. "Right! Now, that gives us half a minute!"

Then, he stalked over to Boromir, who remained on his knees and let his chin fall to his chest. Without hesitating, Gimli smacked the man hard on the back of the head, and Aragorn and Legolas both froze. Boromir made no move to get away, or dodge another blow. He deserved far worse, he knew, and if Gimli could get some of his anger out then at least –

"There's a saying among dwarves," said Gimli severely, sounding rather like a father scolding his son, "that a smack to the face is an insult. A smack to the back of the head is a wake-up call. Now, from the sounds of it that would have been a lot more use a week ago, but better late than never."

Utterly bewildered, Boromir could make no response but blink.

Then, Gimli struck him once more, this time across the face. "That was for attacking Frodo. You deserve to be insulted for that, you know." Then, he seized Boromir's chin and twisted his face side to side. Boromir wondered if this was some sort of strange dwarven precursor to more severe punishment. "Aye, like I thought," Gimli growled. "No sign of the sickness now. And I reckon that's what took you, lad. Gold Sickness is a curse, and Gandalf himself said the ring could cause it easily. It was wrong to attack Frodo, and you know it, but you've suffered enough for your troubles, if indeed you did no real harm. And I don't believe you did – you're many things, Boromir, but you're no liar. If you slip up again, there'll be more trouble, but I reckon with that damned thing gone you're out of the woods. But let me make one thing very, very clear to you," Gimli lowered his voice dangerously, "whatever happened… to Merry, and to Pippin, that is not your fault."

Stunned did not seem a strong enough word to cover it. Boromir shook his head slightly, but Gimli was not having it.

"You fought for them, you nearly died for them, and no one can say you did not do enough. You were incapacitated, Boromir. It was not your fault. And that is why I haven't taken a knife to you already. If I believed you were at fault, or that you had truly hurt Frodo, you wouldn't be at all worried about that arm of yours. I would tell you what I'd do, if I _did_ think you'd hurt any of them, but it would traumatise the elf." With that, Gimli looked up at Aragorn and Legolas. "Right, now that's done, let's go find my cousins. Fangorn is full of dark tales. We'd best find them before they trip over a tree root and end up in the Anduin like Kíli did."

Legolas and Aragorn exchanged glances, and grins grew on their faces.

"Come on, Boromir," called Gimli, already halfway to the trees. "No time to waste now."

Perhaps Gimli had hit him a little too hard on the head, and he was now hallucinating. Yes, that must have been it, because Boromir could not have been _pardoned_ by the most notoriously grudge-keeping race in the world. The forgiveness was strange enough when it came from Frodo's mouth, but Gimli was protective to a fault, and as dwarvish as they came. And surely, he would blame Boromir for whatever had happened to Merry and Pippin? Who else could be at fault?

And, to top off the bizarre scene, there was a dwarf waltzing almost cheerfully towards _Fangorn_ forest. Fangorn of fables, and old wives' tales that had kept the children of Gondor entertained – and terrified – for generations.

"Come, Boromir," said Aragorn, more strongly, and he strode over, offering Boromir his hand. "He is right you know," he said quietly. "On all counts. Leave your shame here, my friend. It will serve you no longer. How are your injuries?"

"Fine," said Boromir, too quickly for Aragorn's liking. "Save from the fact I am convinced I hit my head far too hard – is Gimli grinning at trees?"

Aragorn smiled. "Gimli has found his hope. It was lost to him for some time. Come. Let us find our friends."

* * *

Merry was certain that he had never been in a more serious predicament in his life. He was also certain that to think so was the understatement of the century, but describing it more accurately would just be more of a cause to panic.

It had been a whole day since Pippin passed out, and Merry had not seen him since. He had watched Pippin crumple, watched him fall to the floor, unresponsive when the whips came crashing down against his back. When a goblin jabbed Pippin with a spear, and Pippin did not move, Merry had begun to yell, but there was not even a twitch to tell him that Pippin was alive.

Uglúk himself had scooped Pippin into his arms, and carried him out of Merry's view. Merry had screamed for Pippin until the whip was breaking his skin beneath his clothes, but he had seen no sign of him since. Not a single curly hair.

"Best hope _you're_ the one the master wants," one of the uruk-hai had whispered to him, the last time they had stopped to force orc liquor down his throat. "He'll not be in much luck if it isn't."

But he had told Merry no more than that, regardless of how viciously the hobbit growled.

Now, the orcs were in a panic. There were men behind them, it seemed, mounted men, and the night was falling fast. Those who fell behind had fallen to arrows, and had not got up. It felt quite sudden when the orcs stopped, and it took Merry only a second to realise that they had been fully encircled.

"Form ranks!" Uglúk snarled, from somewhere in the pack. Despite the number that had fallen, there were still two hundred orcs or so, by Merry's best guess. "The filthy whiteskins are cowards. They'll wait for the sun before they attack. Put the prisoners in the middle, and bind their legs. They're not to shout, or be rescued. As long as I'm alive, I want them, you hear?"

At once, Merry was heaved from the ground by a pair of wiry arms, and another goblin grabbed his legs, lashing them together with a rope so tight that Merry grimaced. Then, he was tossed down like a sack of flour, and he let his head fall back against the ground. He could see no stars above him. All the light in the world was coming from a fire, one that the orcs were building to his right somewhere. Soon it was hot and violent, with large, red flames that licked at the night.

Then there was a thud, as another body was thrown down beside him, and his heart leapt, and then plummeted at twice the speed.

Pippin had been thrown down beside him, but he was very pale, and very, very still. There was a thin trail of dried blood tracing its way down his cheek, and more beneath his nose. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were hollow, and a thrill of horror ran through Merry, worse than any he had ever felt.

Was Pippin, his Pippin – was he dead?

"Pippin," he whimpered, unable to put any more strength into his voice. "Pip?"

Pippin opened his eyes, and Merry gasped, closing his own for a moment in relief. Then, they flew open again, and Merry reached out, grabbing Pippin's bound hands with his own. They were so cold.

"Hello, Merry," whispered Pippin, his voice croaky and weak.

"You had me worried, there, Pip," Merry said, trying to bring a smile to his face. "I lost you, for a while."

Pippin made an attempt to smile back, but it was so weak that Merry's heart quaked. "I think we're very lost, Merry."

"Aye, just a little bit." There was a lump growing in Merry's throat. "What did they do to you, Pip?"

Pippin just blinked his glassy eyes, and Merry bit his lip, squeezing his cousin's hands. He had seen Pippin sick before, seen him tired and even wounded, but never had he seen him look so empty. Anger was rising within him, but it was nothing next to the fear.

What had they done? What had they done to his Pippin?

"I don't even like cheesy scones."

Merry looked up at Pippin in alarm. Had they – had they broken his mind?

"What?" Merry asked, slowly.

"Scones, Merry," said Pippin, another little smile tugging at his lips. "We only went to Bilbo's for some scones. If we hadn't, the Rider wouldn't've seen us, and they'd've kept us home. All of this, for some cheesy scones. And I don't even like them."

Merry let out a weak laugh, relief seeping through him. Pippin was well enough to joke, and that could not be a bad thing. "That feels like a lifetime ago."

He thought back to that night, to the alcohol, to the dancing in the Green Dragon. They were all fractured now – Bofin was injured and Nelly and Bróin and Frodo and Sam were all a world away. He thought of his parents.

 _"You be safe, Merry, you hear me? Do what the dwarves say, stay close to Kíli. He'll look after you."_

The lump in Merry's throat grew. If he ever saw his father again, he would not even be able to say that he had tried. He had purposefully left Kíli behind, fled from Kíli to try and keep his dwarves and his Uncle Bilbo safe. _If_ he ever saw his father again. Uncle Paladin and Aunt Ellie, they had Pearl and Vinca and Nelly, if the worst was to – but Merry's parents…

They had only Merry.

"That said," Pippin murmured, "I'd love a couple of scones now. Cheese and all."

"Aye," Merry nodded, smiling. "Me too."

A mighty clamour broke out on the other side of the camp, and the two hobbits jumped. The riders, it seemed, were not content with waiting till dawn, as the orcs assumed they would be. Instead, they had crept up and attacked, slaying several orcs before slipping back into the darkness. Panic was rising through the ranks of the orcs, and Merry watched carefully as the Isengarders ran off to stop the goblins from scattering.

And their guards ran off with them.

"Pippin!" he hissed, nodding towards the forest and beginning to crawl. "Quickly!"

Pippin shook his head. "No, Merry, wait!" before Merry could so much as open his mouth to ask what for, Pippin glanced over his shoulders and then slipped the rope off of his hands. Merry's mouth dropped open, but before he could ask Pippin was untying his legs.

"I did it when they were arguing," he whispered, finishing with Merry's legs and moving onto his hands.

"Do your own legs first," said Merry, watching carefully. "You'll need them more than I need my hands."

Pippin nodded and untied his legs. It took a little longer, agonisingly so, but finally Pippin kicked the ropes away, and moved for Merry's hands.

And three things happened at once.

A goblin spied them, and shrieked, "Hey!", and a dozen horses burst into the ring of uruk-hai, and a long armed orc slunk from the shadows behind the two hobbits.

Without a second thought, Merry leapt to his feet, dragging Pippin with him, and tore towards the forest. For a moment he wondered if he would have to carry Pippin, but his cousin seemed to have strength enough to run.

Around them, chaos fought with danger in a firelit battle, but Merry kept his eyes on the forest. He did not look at the horses and horsemen, nor at the orcs as they fought, and fled, and fell. He just kept running.

An enormous horse reared above them and Merry dove forwards, and Pippin's hand was wrenched from his. Stumbling, Merry turned, but to his horror he could not see his cousin anywhere. There were only orcs and horse legs and shadows.

"Pip-" His yell was cut short by a large, bloodied hand clamping down over his mouth, and Merry found himself wrenched from the ground. It was Grishnákh, the orc from Mordor who had challenged Uglúk, and there was an evil glint in his eye as he dragged Merry further towards the forest. Pippin was held tightly in the orc's other arm, and as much as Merry struggled, without his hands he could not get free.

Just as panic began to rise up in his chest, Merry heard Kíli's voice in his mind, gentle and kind, and patient as ever when he explained to a ten-year-old Merry why he should not tug hair in wrestling classes.

 _"When you spar, or wrestle for sport or fun, there are rules, and you have to follow them to make sure no one gets badly hurt. Not only is it the proper thing to do, but it is the honourable thing. Good hobbits and dwobbits and dwarves don't break rules like that. But, you_ are _a hobbit, which means you will almost always be smaller than the folk you fight. That means, in real life, you fight dirty. If – and only if – you're fighting for your life, you bite and pull hair and poke eyes – anything and everything you can do to win. You got it?"_

Twisting his neck to get a better angle, Merry sank his teeth into Grishnákh's arm, and the orc grunted, shaking him. Merry bit down harder, forcing his jaw to close tighter and tighter until Grishnákh screeched, dropping Pippin to grab Merry by the throat. His long fingers pressed into Merry's eyes, and Merry realised in a heartbeat what was about to happen.

"Run, Pippin!" he cried, but before the orc could take out his eyes, Pippin smashed a stone into Grishnákh's head, again and again until he let Merry go.

The two hobbits sprang forward, but Merry was tugged back once more.

"Your belt!" cried Pippin, and Merry released it as quickly as his trembling fingers allowed.

With one final kick to Grishnákh's bloodied skull, Merry broke free, leaving his belt behind him as he sprinted towards the forest. Pippin ran by his side, stumbling but still standing, still running.

They were almost there.

Five feet.

Three feet.

Two feet –

Merry expected to be dragged back again, or to have his escape cut short with an arrow to the back, but neither happened. He dove under the cover of the trees, with Pippin safe beside him, and they kept running.

Behind them, the sounds of battle grew quieter and quieter, but they kept running.

And running.

And running.

And then Pippin fell again.

"Pippin!" Merry gasped, his own legs slipping out from beneath him. He scrambled to his cousin's side as quickly as he could. Pippin's feet were moving weakly, pedalling at the air as though he was still trying to run, and he was drawing deep, rasping breaths that sent shudders through his whole body. Merry grabbed his hand, and gently tilted Pippin's head back so that he could get in more air. "It's alright," he said, his own voice shaking. "It's alright Pippin, just breathe-"

"Go!" wheezed Pippin, his bloodshot eyes piercing Merry. "Run, Merry – they'll – catch – you, go!"

"I'm not going anywhere." Merry glanced around. The forest around them was whispering. Wind hissed through the bushes and the trees crowded down towards them, but there was no sight or sound of orcs. "I don't think we were followed, there's been no one behind us for a while now. Breathe, Pippin, that's it. I'm sorry. I forgot that you – I'm sorry. Rest now, Pip, rest for a minute."

Pippin groaned, and tried to sit up. Merry put a hand on his chest, but Pippin knocked it off, and forced himself into a sitting position. He swayed, and Merry caught him, lowering him gently back to the ground. "We've got… to keep moving…" he breathed. "Grishnákh – Grishnákh-"

"No one followed us, Pippin."

But Pippin threw himself up again, and his eyes glazed over as his blood pressure dropped down to his toes "We've got to _go_ Merry."

"Why do you have to be so stubborn, Pippin?" Merry snapped, too sharply, and he softened both his voice and his grip on his cousin. "You are _spent,_ Pippin, you know you are."

"But if they catch us, if they catch us Merry," Pippin gasped, gripping Merry's arm so tight it hurt. "We're dead, Merry, dead. And after, after I – you – they'll _hurt_ you Merry!"

Merry swallowed, and dragged a smile onto his face. "Ah, don't worry about me, Pippin. I'm alright. It's going to be fine now, you'll see."

Doubt flickered in Pippin's eyes, and he glanced back the way that they had come.

"I know," Merry said, pushing his smile wider. "Get on my back, come on."

"Merry-"

"I mean it. You want to get out of here, don't you? Then get on." He crouched beside Pippin, who slowly wound his arms around Merry's neck. Merry stood, and Pippin's legs wrapped around his waist. Shifting until he was comfortable as could be, Merry began to walk. He ignored the weakness in his own knees, and the trembling in his thighs. It was just for a little bit longer. Just a tiny, little bit longer.

He could hear a stream nearby, and he followed the sound of the water until he could see it. He smiled. It was a small brook, and the water would go no higher than his knees. Merry stepped down into it carefully, and though the water was ice cold, it felt wonderful against his skin. Slowly and carefully, he walked downstream, taking great care not to trip or slip. The last thing Pippin needed was to fall face first into freezing water. After a few minutes, he saw a suitable tree, and waded to the edge of the river. A large bough hung down over them, and Merry took a deep breath, getting a strong hold of the branch.

He was a hobbit, just a small, exhausted, frightened little hobbit, and such folk were not renowned for their strength, but renown could be misleading, and Merry was raised by dwarves. Grinding his teeth, he gathered all of his might and heaved, dragging himself and Pippin up out of the brook and into the tree. Pippin made to get down, but Merry held his cousin's hands in place for a moment with a shake of his head, releasing them only to free his own hands. With all the strength he had, Merry climbed and climbed, higher and higher until they were perched safely ten feet from the ground.

A squirrel scurried around the tree trunk and gave an indignant squeak, chattering angrily at the two hobbits. Merry batted at it, and though he missed, it fled.

Then, Merry tapped Pippin's hands, and his cousin slowly let go. There was not much in the way of space, so Merry sat with his back against the tree trunk, and let his legs dangle over either side. Then, Pippin sat before him, leaning back and resting his head on Merry's shoulder. Merry's arms wove around him, and for a long time they did not speak. They simply sat there, exhausted and aching and afraid, and Merry focused on the feeling of Pippin's chest rising and falling beneath his hands. He held on a little tighter.

"Don't scare me like that again, Pippin," he said.

"Like what?"

"When you fell. I couldn't see you, I thought you – don't do it again."

"I won't," mumbled Pippin.

Merry paused, pursing his lips. He did not want to scare Pippin, or upset him, but he had to know. "What happened, Pip? When we got down the cliff, and the yelling began? Why were the orcs so angry? What happened?"

"I ran," Pippin said dully. "I ran away, through their legs. I thought, maybe, if the people chasing the orcs knew we were there, they might not kill us when they caught up. So I ran, to leave some prints, and I dropped my badge – the one Galadriel gave to me. I don't know why. It was stupid. No one was chasing the orcs looking for us. The others have gone with Frodo, and other Men would only care about the orcs. It was stupid, and now my broach is gone."

There was a lump growing in Merry's throat. "I don't think it was stupid, Pippin. I think it was very smart."

Pippin gave an unconvinced grunt. "I was hoping they might be like the last men of Rohan we met."

Merry paused, the memory rising like the lash of a whip. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they were lovely, weren't they? The younger prince, he played with us."

"And that's all you remember of it?"

Pippin nodded, and Merry closed his eyes. He counted to three before he spoke again. "Pippin, the men of Rohan nearly killed my wolf. It was their trap that took Denahi's leg!"

Pippin twisted around, his eyes wide as they focused on Merry. "What?"

"His leg got stuck in a trap they'd set to protect their horses while they camped. They'd left it behind, by accident."

"Oh… I thought he'd always had three legs," said Pippin, looking genuinely baffled. Despite himself, Merry grinned, tousling Pippin's hair gently.

"You're going to have to start paying more attention, Pippin." Merry's thoughts turned to Denahi, and he sighed. "They're nice, really. The people of Rohan. At least the ones we've met are. It was an accident. They gave us twice what we needed to pay for Denahi to heal, and Prince Théoden bought me a half a bakery to apologise, at least that's what it seemed like. Cinnamon buns, honey-cakes, biscuits – enough to last me a week. You must remember sharing those? He's king now, Théoden. His father died years ago…"

For a long moment, Pippin did not speak. Around them, light was beginning to seep through the trees, filtering down upon them only in slips and shadows, and Merry raised his face upwards. His stomach growled. Loudly.

"We're going to starve, aren't we?"

Merry rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket. "No. We're not." With a smile, he passed Pippin a chunk of lembas, and then took a bite himself, before re-wrapping it in its leaf and tucking it safely back into his pocket. He tightened his grip around Pippin. "You know I always keep my pockets stocked. We're going to be fine, Pippin. I promise."

A loud, angry chirrup drew Merry's attention, and he saw that the squirrel had returned, and was chattering angrily at them.

"It almost sounds like a quack," mumbled Pippin. Merry listened, and supposed that Pippin was right. But another sound caught his ear, a sound of dull thuds and shifting plants, and he suddenly had the most horrible feeling that something big was coming up behind them. There was another thud, like a footfall, and Merry's arms locked around Pippin.

"Barum," boomed a voice, as old and deep as the earth. "What have we here?"

 **And so we end on a cliffhanger, perhaps more so for our two hobbits than for our audience, who I hope can guess who that particular voice belongs to ;) I hope that you enjoyed that mammoth chapter. I tried to put in some lighter moments for you after the awfulness of the last chapter, so I hope you liked it!**

 **Please do leave a review if you can, I really, truly appreciate it. In any case, thanks for reading, I'll see you next Monday if all goes well :D**


	52. Chapter 52: Isengard

**Hey there! Thank you to my lovely reviewer of the last chapter, and I'm sorry to keep you all waiting for this one. Nevertheless, here we are now, and I hope you enjoy and forgive my typos!**

 **Chapter Fifty-Two: Isengard**

Bróin awoke to the sound of battle.

It wrought the night air and set his hair on end, the screeching and screaming and faint clash of steel on steel, and at first he could not understand what was happening. The noise was perhaps a mile away or so, but he could not understand where it was coming from. He could not remember where he was, or why his hands and feet were tied so tightly, or why he ached like he had been sat on by a troll.

Why was Nelly lying in front of him, with skin as pale as paper, and her limbs bound with a rope that choked a tree behind her?

She took a breath in and opened her mouth, but at once a figure swept down upon her, and a black hand clamped down over her mouth. _Orcs._ Bróin's own jaw opened, but he, too, was silenced with a stinking, sweaty palm pressed tightly over his mouth. He squirmed, but the orcs fingers clamped his nose shut, and Bróin quickly fell still. To his relief, the orc let go of his nose. He took a deep breath and stared at Nelly.

He remembered running, and falling on the beach, and he remembered the sickly taste of the orc draught, and the strength it leant him. He remembered tracking the orcs, but how –

His eyes widened, and his stomach lurched so fiercely he almost threw up.

He remembered why he had been caught.

Why he had not bided his time as he had intended to, why he had not waited for an opportunity to save Nelly. Why instead, he had instead decided to take on sixty orcs with a couple of rocks and a nearly-broken arm.

He closed his eyes tightly, but that did not get rid of the image. It did not even blur the memory, the sight of the orc bearing down upon Nelly, tugging at his belt, at her trousers…

If they had been beating her, Bróin might have been able to stand it, to wait for a better time to move, but as soon as he realised what the orcs intended there was no way that Bróin could have stood by. None at all.

And as the orc that held him now shoved a bundle of cloth into Bróin's mouth, and then gagged him with a rope that stank of death, Bróin did not regret what he had done. He only wished he had taken out more orcs, or that he had been able to hide better, and be more of a long-term help.

But he pulled his mind from the past quickly. It was needed more here. The orcs gagged Nelly, too, and then Bróin felt something cold and sharp pressing into his throat. He swallowed, and met Nelly's eyes. She looked grim and defiant, but when the orcs pushed a knife to her neck all Bróin could see were the rings beneath her eyes, and how vulnerable she looked without her tunic or bodice. Like Bróin, she still had her elven cloak, but it offered little protection.

"Good," hissed Lurtz, the large uruk that seemed to be leading the group. "If the fight breaks over this way, and we're gonna get beat, slit their throats. Until then, keep 'em silent." He turned his eyes to Bróin, and gave a grin that showed off his pointed, red-stained teeth. "One noise from either of you and you're both dead."

Bróin met Nelly's eyes and her brows lowered in a warning. Bróin raised his own brows meekly to assure her that he had no intention of making a noise, and her face relaxed. Relaxed until it went slack, emotionless. Bróin took a slow, deep breath, and tried to follow suit. They had talked about it before with Nori, talked about how to make yourself as convenient a prisoner as possible, but it did not come naturally to Bróin. He was a dwarf, hot blooded as they come, and he wanted to snarl and thrash and make life a misery for the orcs around him.

 _"It's all about what you want, kid. Do you want to be a hero, or do you want to live?"_

Bróin closed his eyes. He would really rather be both, but with a knife to his neck, he wanted to live.

And in the distance rang the sounds of dying. Horses shrieking, orcs roaring, men bellowing. Metal striking metal. Though the battle could not be nearer than a mile or two away, he could hear quite clearly, because the rest of the forest was quiet as a tomb. The orcs made no movements, save from their eyes, which roamed the dark trees around them. Even their breathing had been hushed, and they waited with a patience Bróin had not known their kind capable of.

The hours passed sluggishly, and the sounds of the fight began to fade, but still the orcs made no move. They kept their stillness, and they held to their silence, until the world was so quiet that Bróin felt that he could hear his own heart beating.

The world around them grew lighter before there came any other sound. Day was creeping into being, and still the orcs did not move.

Then came a rustle, soft as the wind, and he looked over Nelly's shoulder. One of the uruk-hai slunk slowly into the clearing, his feet falling carefully only the ground with steps of controlled quiet.

"Mauhúr," growled Lurtz, quiet as the hiss of a snake. "What news?"

Mauhúr shook his head, and the orcs breathed out curses. "All dead. Uglúk led them straight to the noose of the white-skins. Their corpses are burning, and the white-skins ride away."

"Their prisoners?" said Lurtz, and Bróin's heart did an odd jolt.

Prisoners? No, no, no…

"Dead, I reckon, though I didn't get close enough to see for sure," said Mauhúr. "Uglúk was a fool, but he followed orders. He'd've had 'em like that," he jabbed a finger at Bróin and Nelly, "if they ain't burning with the rest I'd be surprised."

His heart beating painfully fast, Bróin wondered who the prisoners were, though he had a horrible feeling it could only be someone he knew. He wondered if he should hope that it was Merry and Pippin, so that Frodo had got away, and he wondered if it was selfish to pray that they were strangers.

Lurtz spat at the ground near Nelly's feet. "Let's go. Pick 'em but, and keep quiet. We don't know if there are more filthy white-skins slinking around."

With that, Bróin and Nelly were hauled from the ground and the ropes around the trees untied. Rough hands pushed and pulled at Bróin's limbs until he slipped his tied arms beneath his legs so that they were in front of him. Then, his arms were looped around Mauhúr's neck, and the pack began to run.

 _Well,_ he thought glumly, _on the plus side, I'm not running anymore._

That did bring a little relief. His feet were blistered and bruised, and his legs were burning from exhaustion, and from the lashes the orcs' whips had left on his skin. At least now they had a chance to rest.

The orcs continued their silence as they ran. Bróin could hear the heavy thud of their feet, and the clanking of their weapons and their armour. Their heavy pants fouled the air, and they snorted and grunted like cattle, but they spoke no words, and neither did anything else. There was no sign of any other life in this cursed land – no birdsong, no wind, not even running water.

It was as though nothing existed except Bróin, and Nelly, and sixty odd orcs.

That was not a particularly pleasant thought.

The orcs kept low. They skittered around the edge of the forest, lingering in the shade and shelter of the trees, until Bróin saw a great, grey wall on the horizon. His mouth grew very dry, and his eyes grew wide.

He knew exactly where they were going. Where they would be in mere hours, if the orcs kept up their pace.

Isengard.

They began to leave the trees, heading south and running with the speed of wolves. A faint sound began to make its way to Bróin's ears, a low grumbling that he could quickly place. As it grew nearer, and clearer, and he began to recognise the clamour of some sort of forge, and the shouts of cruel voices. It did not bring Bróin much comfort, but it seemed to please the orcs, who began to run even faster.

The sun faded as they drew closer and closer to the great wall, and Bróin felt his toes curl within his boots at the sight of the gate. It was made of black iron, and high as the front doors of Erebor.

It looked as he had always imagined the black gates of Mordor to look, right down to the smoke rising in great plumes behind it.

 _How did anyone ever think a man living here was a good one?_ Bróin thought, and he craned his neck to look for Nelly, but she was hidden by the mass of orcs around them. The larger uruk-hai, the Isengarders, seemed all too happy to be home. Great, ugly smiles split their faces in two, and they cackled beneath their breath.

And the gates opened for them, without so much as a sound.

Behind the gate lay a land that Bróin could only liken to the land of the dead.

It was grey and barren, and there were great chasms in the ground from which smoke rose and fires blazed, and the entire land was covered in ash. In its centre, he could see the tower of Orthanc, and its black stone glinting in the dying light of the sun.

If Bróin went through those gates, if he went into that land –

Panic clawed its way up Bróin's throat and he gagged, tugging at his arms to try and get them free. Mauhúr, the uruk holding him, gave a harsh laugh and tugged Bróin's hands back down. With a cry that failed to escape his gag, Bróin threw his body weight from side to side and swung his bound legs into Mauhúr's back, but all his struggles won him were taunts and jeers from the other orcs.

The hooted at him and pinched his arms and his cheeks, and even as hope drained away into helplessness, Bróin kept on kicking.

"He knows he won't be leaving!" crooned a goblin.

Mauhúr laughed, digging his claws into Bróin's arms, and stopped dead just outside of the gate. Bróin paused too, holding his breath, and Mauhúr looked over his shoulder and grinned. "Welcome to the land you die in, lordling."

Then he stepped into Isengard.

Terrified, Bróin tried to roar, and thrashed with all the strength he had, but it did nothing. The gag turned his roar to a whimper, and his thrashes did not even slow Mauhúr. The orcs just laughed louder and more harshly, and the uruk carrying him jumped, and began to run with the others. Instinct and pride told Bróin to keep fighting regardless, to keep struggling to retain his honour, but Nori's words and his own fear eclipsed all else, and Bróin fell stopped fighting.

He wanted his Adad.

The uruk-hai around him were letting out victorious yells and punching the air, and the sounds grew louder and louder until Bróin's ears rang, and he saw that there were more uruk-hai pouring from every direction, joining in with the noise. And there were men too, wild looking men and men with dark faces, and they cheered with the orcs, and laughed at the fear on Bróin's face.

These newcomers followed Lurtz' pack, hounding them as though it was some great parade. Bróin supposed that for them it was. By the time they reached the base of the tower, there were thousands of them. _Thousands_.

 _We're dead,_ he thought fearfully, trying not to shrink in on himself. _There's no getting out of this…_

Harsh hands grabbed his legs and sawed through the bonds, and then Bróin was dragged from Mauhúr's back and thrown him to the ground. His knees hit the dirt, but his arms crashed into the first of the stone steps. Pain exploded from his already battered arms and Bróin choked back a yell. If his arm had not been broken before, it almost certainly was now.

"Get up," sneered Mauhúr, grabbing Bróin's neck and dragging him up onto his feet. Beside him, Nelly was getting similar treatment, but she was bearing it like a queen, with a face as stern and stoic as stone. Bróin swallowed and straightened up, following her lead and staring straight ahead.

Mauhúr grabbed a handful of Bróin's hair and pushed him forward. Bróin tripped, his aching legs uncooperative after so much time lashed together, and he stumbled, but the uruk dragged him up again. Bróin's floundering feet found grip, and when he began the long walk up the stairs. Again, Nelly was beside him, and again she had a great deal more decorum, but she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye as they ascended, and Bróin saw a single tear escape down the crook of her nose.

Lurtz and Mauhúr drove them up the stairs, but the rest of the pack remained below, and their clamour fell back into silence. And the silence was worse.

This must be how it felt to walk to the gallows.

Above them, the door to the tower opened, and a man emerged from the darkness, with white robes that shone blindingly against the black and grey of the land around them. He was tall as Gandalf had been, but Bróin knew before he came into sight that his face was cruel, and that his name was Saruman.

He stood in the threshold so that the doorway arched over him, and he raised a single eyebrow as Bróin and Nelly were pushed onto the final stair. The wizard stared at Lurtz, and at Mauhúr, and then turned, beckoning with a single finger, and walking into the tower. Choiceless, they followed, and Bróin's stomach twisted as the door shut behind them, unaided, with a sickening, final thud.

It was very dark inside. No torches had been lit, and there were no lights to speak of to lend beauty to the delicate architecture that must have been the work of great men. Bróin thought that the very stone felt sick. He did not think this was a place built for evil means, and wondered if it mourned what it had become.

If it would mourn what became of him.

They began to climb down again, deep, deep into the base of the tower, until there was a shift in the air that told Bróin they were now underground. Before him, Nelly stumbled, but quickly regained her footing. Saruman did not stumble. He seemed to glide.

It grew darker and darker, until the wizard's white robes were all that Bróin could easily see, but then he saw a light ahead, a hot, angry orange light, that could only come from fire. He squashed the urge to fight again, to drag his ankles and scramble back up the stairs. It would be useless, and do more harm than good, he knew that.

They reached a metal door, with a single, barred window. It was through this window that the light was shining, and the door swung open before Saruman without any sign of being touched. Behind the door was a small chamber with eight walls. On each of the walls was a door, and each door bore a flaming torch on either side. Every door was identical, from the heavy metal it was wrought from to the size of the bars on the identical windows. Through every window, Bróin could see only darkness. Bróin had no doubt of its purpose – as soon as the door behind them was closed, he knew that finding the right door to escape could take hours.

Another door, the third from his right, opened of its own accord, and Saruman strode into the darkness behind it. The two uruk-hai pushed the prisoners after him, into a cold, damp corridor. It twisted and turned, and Bróin could feel, rather than see, the side passages that split off from the corridor. His heart sank further with every turn they took. Orthanc was not just a tower – its very bowels were a maze.

They stopped, and Bróin heard a metal key turn, and a door swing open. He followed Mauhúr and Nelly inside, and as soon as he passed the threshold the room was lit with cold, green flames that sprang from empty brackets in the walls.

Nelly winced and blinked at the sudden light, but Bróin's eyes were quicker to adjust. They were in an interrogation room – that much was clear. Nailed to the back wall were four hooks, through which chains and shackles hung, attached to what looked like winches. On another wall were hooks and shelves bearing an assortment of old, wicked blades, and other instruments Bróin could only imagine had been invented for torture. Some things he recognised, but others he knew only from Nori's 'Horrible History' stories. Others…

He did not think that he wanted to have an idea what the others were.

Before he could get more of a look, he was pushed down onto his knees, and Nelly was forced down beside him.

Saruman turned, facing them for the first time, and looked hard at the two orcs. "Your task was to bring me the halflings. I see one halfling, and one half grown dwarf."

"Yes, Master," said Lurtz, bowing low. "We caught this one near the Falls," he hit the back of Nelly's head. "Uglúk caught two more, but he got caught by the horseman. He is dead, and so are his captives."

Saruman's eyes narrowed. "You are sure of this?"

"Not completely," said Mauhúr hesitantly. "We could not scout close enough to find out without risking our own captives. The folly of Uglúk is not our fault – the packs were separated."

"Separated?"

"The halflings ran in two different directions, no doubt to scatter us," Lurtz said. "We caught the bitch, Uglúk went after the dogs."

Saruman's eyes narrowed, and he stared at Nelly. She stared back, expressionless. Then, Saruman glanced at Bróin.

"That is not a halfling. Tell me, why is this dwarf still alive?"

"He is a lordling," said Mauhúr, and Lurtz offered Saruman Bróin's severed braid. It churned Bróin's stomach to see his bead in the hands of such a traitor – even more than it annoyed him to see his hair detached from his head. "Of the ilk you sent Lugdush looking for."

Saruman's eyebrows raised, and a cruel smirk twisted the corner of his mouth up. "Indeed? Then that is not as ill as I thought. Very well. Take him away, lock him up. I shall come to him later."

Lurtz bowed and seized Bróin's shoulder, but Mauhúr hesitated. "Master, if you want information from the halfling whore, you should keep him around." Saruman's eyes narrowed slightly, and Mauhúr added something in the Black Speech, something that Bróin did not understand. But the wizard clearly did understand, and his smirk grew.

"I see," he said, staring at Bróin. "Prepare them, then leave us. Lurtz, you are to take a party of warg riders to the place where Uglúk fell. I want the halflings, or their corpses – by any means. Mauhúr, you are to wait in the chamber of doors until I call."

The uruk-hai bowed low, and then dragged their captives to the back wall. Bróin's wrists were released from rope for the first time in a week, only to be encased in iron. The winches were used to pull Bróin's arms up and up, above his head until it began to hurt, until only his toes remained on the floor. When that was done, Mauhúr locked the chains in place. Bróin was not going anywhere.

The gag was removed from his mouth, none too gently, and when the same had been done to Nelly, the two uruk-hai strode out of the room.

The door slammed behind them.

"So," said Saruman, and at once his voice had changed. It was no longer harsh and cruel, but slow, melodic, and calm. It was eerie, almost familiar, and had the feel of a voice Bróin might have heard once, in a gentle dream. "Where is the ring?"

It did not sound like a loaded question. It sounded inconsequential, reasonable, a question that you should want to answer. Perhaps that was how Saruman convinced the world he was not an evil, treacherous slug. But if the wizard was trying to cast a spell, it was not working. Not on Bróin, at least.

And, apparently, not on Nelly either. "What ring?" she asked, a pleading tremble in her voice. "What are you _talking_ about?"

Saruman raised a single brow. "You know of what I speak. Feigned ignorance will not save you, and it will not save your friend. Where is the ring?"

Nelly shook her head, painting a look of pained confusion onto her face, but Saruman's eyes grew harder, colder, and he pressed the end of his staff to Bróin's chest. Nelly stiffened, and Bróin shot her a look.

 _Don't say a word_.

"Where is the ring?"

"What ring?"

Saruman's eyes narrowed, and twisted his staff. At once Bróin's heart and lungs seized, crushed beneath a pain and a pressure that he had never felt before. It was like a metal hand had been thrust into his chest, like iron claws were clenching around his organs while his blood turned into knives that drilled their way through his veins. He bit back a yell, desperate not to put Nelly under more pressure, but the pain began to spread, and he gasped out a cry, writhing hopelessly to get away.

But there was nowhere to go. He had no way to escape from the touch of the staff, and his toes curled up in his boots. The feeling spread, and his stomach crumbled in on itself, and his body began to twist and bend without any thought or reason. His head hit the stone behind him, and he groaned as the pain splintered up towards his collar bone.

"Stop!" Nelly cried. "Stop it, please, I don't _know_! I don't know where the ring is, I swear, please-"

"Do not _lie_ to me!" the wizard snarled, twisting the staff again. The pain splintered down Bróin's arms and he clenched his teeth together. He could not shout. It would be harder for Nelly if he yelled. But the pain was growing sharper and hotter, and drilling further and further from his heart by the second. No matter how he tried to keep still, his head hit against the stone again, and again and again until it hurt, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Shuddering, Bróin tried to steel himself, but when the pain spread both to his collar bone and the base of his spine, he could not hold in his scream, not even for Nelly. The sound ripped out through his throat, dragging the pain up with it, and he screamed again.

" _I don't know_!" shrieked Nelly, and he heard the frantic clanking of chains as she struggled.

The pain crawled further, further up and further down, and his knees jerked up towards his chest. At once the chains began biting into his wrists, and his arms screamed at holding his body weight when they were already hurt so much, but it was as if the agony had welded his legs into place.

"Please, _please,_ stop it, I don't know, stop it! I don't know, I don't _know!"_

"If you are lying to me, he will die."

Panic began to dance with the pain that was reaching Bróin's ankles, and his head. If Nelly thought he was going to die, would she tell? Would she tell this monster where Frodo was? He wanted to yell, to roar or cry or even beg her not too, but his teeth where clenched again, and it felt as though they had been soldered shut.

"I'm not," sobbed Nelly. "Really, truly, I swear, I swear I don't know. Please, please stop hurting him, please, I don't know, I don't know."

There was a pause, and the pain blistered behind Bróin's eyes, and then it was gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

Gone in a moment, and his legs fell slack and his jaw dropped open and he gasped, scrambling for a the floor with his toes to give his arms some relief. As he caught his breath, he realised that the pain that lingered was that he had borne before Saruman had touched him, though his arms throbbed twice as badly as they had before.

But the clenching, stabbing, burning, was all gone. As if it had never been there. He glanced down at his chest, at his hands, and saw no sign he had even been touched. Because he had not been touched. His glance slid down to the staff, which hovered but an inch from his chest. Saruman was sweating, but he was also smiling.

"Let's try another question," he said, his eyes on Nelly. "Where is the ring-bearer? Where is Bilbo Baggins?"

If Bróin had not spent so much time playing poker with Nelly and Nori, he might have blinked at that a little too much, or frowned for the split second it took for him to realise that of course, Saruman had no idea that Bilbo no longer had the ring.

"We don't _know,"_ said Nelly weakly, but her voice rose as Saruman made to turn the staff again. "We don't, we don't! We weren't travelling with Bilbo, we don't know where he is! Only that he travels East, that's all we know! We weren't _told_ any plans, or where anyone was going or what they were doing – we don't know, truly, we don't."

"I find that very hard to believe," said Saruman, his cold eyes fixing on Nelly's. "Especially as you, too are travelling east. Especially as you saw him outside the gates of Moria, not three weeks ago. Yes, I know of the fight at the gates. And I told you what would happen if you lied." He touched the tip of the staff to the young dwarf's chest, and Bróin winced, bracing himself.

"I'm not lying!" Nelly cried, words tumbling over each other in an effort to get out. "I swear, who would tell us anything? A dwarfling and a halfling girl, not even of age? What would they tell us? Please, please…" Nelly seemed to be shrinking in on herself, shivering from either cold or fear, and her wild eyes were flooded with tears. "Please…"

"If you are thought so vulnerable, why are you on the road, travelling with such companions as the Ringbearer?" The final word was pronounced like a curse.

"We just wanted to go home," she said miserably. "We just wanted to help our mountain. We…"

"Go on." The staff pressed into Bróin's chest.

The dwarf's heart began to race.

"We ran away," Nelly admitted, her eyes trained on the staff. It was as though she could not talk quickly enough. "We wanted to fight and Bilbo said we could not, that we were too young, so we ran away. It was at Moria he caught us with _his_ company, but we were separated when the gates collapsed. If you know of Moria you know that I do not lie. Please…"

Saruman stared at her for a long moment, a moment that spilt into minutes. The wizard did not speak – nor did he move or blink. It was more unnerving than Gandalf's habit of sleeping with his eyes open.

The thought of Gandalf poured lemon juice into Bróin's every wound.

At last, Saruman spoke. "Then I have one more question, wench. Perhaps you do not know, but you will give me your best guess. Where is Bilbo Baggins going?"

"I… I don't-"

Pain burst into Bróin's heart again and he cried out, curling in on himself as best he could as the air was squeezed from his lungs by those unseen hands.

"Do not lie to me," said Saruman calmly, coldly. "I know when you lie."

Faster then before, the pain spread, fracturing through his body until Bróin could see nothing but white-hot agony, and do nothing but scream until what breath he had was gone.

"Gondor!" Nelly cried, and Bróin's throat closed off.

He tried to breathe, to suck in even a half-breath of air, but he failed, and he felt his eyes roll up into his head. Despite the shrieking pain in his wrists and arms, his body fell completely slack, leaving him to hang from the shackles. Somewhere in a bed of fire, his heart was fluttering weakly, trying to keep him alive, but it was growing weaker, and the world was slipping away.

 _"Erebor! Bilbo will go to Erebor!"_

The pressure disappeared from Bróin's throat and he choked, spluttering desperately until he felt his lungs expand. Again, the pain seeped away at once, but Bróin could not stand up at once. He was trembling, and his arms felt ready to rip in half, and he just wanted it to stop. To be over.

To be all over.

He barely noticed what Nelly had said, or that she was still talking. Saruman threw questions at her, asking for the size of Bilbo's company, what roots they might take, and Bróin heard only snippets of her answers. Exhaustion was swallowing him whole.

It was only when a heavy bell tolled that Bróin was able to catch his own attention. The door opened, and Mauhúr walked in.

"Take them to the Northern Cells. Make sure they are secure, but see they had food, water. I want them alive."

"As you wish," Mauhúr bowed, but his eyes lingered on Nelly, and he straightened. "My Lord, the boys were wondering if we could have some fun. With the girl."

Weak as he was, Bróin tried to glare, to bare his teeth, but to his surprise, Saruman looked almost as disgusted as the dwarf was.

"Have I not given you enough for your boys to be content?" he asked, peering down his nose at the uruk. "She is a prisoner of importance, not a ragged toy to be shared by the rabble. Save your savagery for Rohan, and you will have your fill of 'fun' soon enough. But the halfling and the lordling are not to be violated. Should they misbehave, by all means beat them, but they are not to be desecrated, nor maimed too deeply." The wizard paused, and then nodded to himself. "Though take their clothes and jewels to my chambers, and give them rags. Let them keep their cloaks, but give them no blankets. Put them in the same cell."

Mauhúr nodded, and pulled a lever on the wench. Bróin groaned as his arms were finally released, and they fell like dead-weights around him. The shackles were removed, and replaced by others, on a shorter chain.

"If they do need beating, make sure you spare their faces. There is no point sending a dwarf his son's head if it cannot be recognised, after all." With one last, cruel smirk, Saruman swept from the room, and Mauhúr grabbed Nelly by the back of the neck.

"You first, maggot," he said to Bróin. "Walk."

Too tired to fight, Bróin did as he was told. He let Mauhúr prod him left and right and ahead and up, until he thought another step might take the last of the strength in him. Finally, they reached a wing of what were clearly prison cells, and Mauhúr took the rest of their clothes from them. To Bróin's immense relief, they were given rags at once – scratchy, grey tunics that came down below their knees – and after searching them and removing the elven broaches with a disgusted scowl, the uruk returned their cloaks.

Then, Mauhúr took his hands to their hair, pulling out every bead and clasp he could find, and taking Nelly's necklace and Bróin's rings, until they had nothing left. Nothing but their cloaks, and their bodies, and Saruman's filthy rags.

Bróin was pulled into the cell first, and his ankles were encased in iron. The chain attached to the shackles was soldered to a ring built into the wall, and Bróin did not much like his chances of pulling it loose. Nelly was bundled in beside him, and chained to the same ring, but in an act of mercy that Bróin had not expected, the orc unbound their hands. Then, he tossed half a chunk of stale bread into the cell, and a mug half full of dirty water.

"Don't worry," he said, a sickening grin on his face. "The Master will get bored of you soon enough. Then, we will play."

Apparently satisfied with his dramatic exit, Mauhúr turned and left. The second he was out of sight, Nelly flung herself at Bróin, and he wrapped his arms around her so tightly that his arms burnt. She held him back tighter, her fingers weaving into his hair.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "I'm sorry, Bróin, I'm so sorry."

"What for?" he mumbled, burying his face in her hair. Just feeling her there made him feel a little safer, but she was trembling, and so cold, and his fear for her grew.

Nelly whimpered. "He hurt you, Bróin, he hurt you, and I – I couldn't lie, I couldn't, I couldn't _kill_ you Bróin, I couldn't, so I, I told him – I told – now he's going to go after Bilbo and the others, and _Dís –_ and they, they got Pippin and Merry and – and – and if they're not dead then Frodo and Sam are and we're, we're all… I'm sorry…"

"Me too," Bróin said, squeezing his eyes shut. "They, they might have escaped. They might not be dead."

Nelly just sobbed. Bróin sank back against the wall, making sure to keep his arms around her. He was so tired. So very, very tired.

"Thank you," he murmured. Nelly pulled back to look at him, and he offered her the strongest smile he could manage. "For saving my life. I appreciate it."

She gave a weak smile back, and wiped her nose on her arm. "'ts was best friends are for, isn't it?" She paused. "How bad is it, Bro? Your injuries? Your arm's looking pretty black."

Bróin glanced down. Sure enough, his arms were covered in sleeves of bruises, and his left arm was beginning to swell. He sniffed. "Not good. But I'm a dwarf, Nell. I'll recover. Given the chance…"

"Well then, let's make sure you get that chance," she said matter-of-factly, taking the hunk of bread and splitting it in two. They nibbled, and grimaced, and nibble a little more, and the bread was gone. The water they left. For now. Then they sat together, cuddled up like children, with her head on his shoulder, and his head on hers.

"Well," Bróin said. "This is awful."

She gave a hollow laugh. "You think? I don't think there's quite enough 'macabre' going on." Then Nelly paused, and her voice softened. "You should get some sleep, Bróin. You need it more than I do, I'll watch first."

There was no need to argue for the sake of etiquette, no need to ask if she meant it. Not with his Nelly. His best friend. He smiled weakly at her instead, and gave a little nod.

"Thank you. I love you, Nell."

She smiled back and kissed his forehead. "Love you too, Bro."

Nelly began to hum softly, a Shire melody that Bróin did not know the words to, and a lump grew in his throat. The tune was lilting and gentle, and at last Nelly and Bróin closed their eyes on their tears.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! It was a great challenge to write given the new stuff and my first time writing Saruman, but I enjoyed it. Even if Bróin got a little whumped again - he isn't having the best time, but he has reason to be hopeful ;) I promise that from in the next couple of chapters there will be some lighter scenes to make up for it :)**

 **So, I'm dying to think what you reckon is going to happen, how this will change things, if at all? Any feedback at all is truly appreciated, but I also appreciate your reading this at all, so thank you!**

 **I shall see you next chapter, probably Monday, and until then, take care!**


	53. Chapter 53: The Watching and the Waiting

**Hello! Thank you for the lovely reviews to the last chapter, I'm sorry this one is two days late. I've been a wee bit busy, and I struggled with how to write parts of it. Anyway, here it is, so I hope you forgive my typos and enjoy.**

 **Chapter Fifty Three: The Watching and the Waiting**

It took nigh on a week to reach the peak of the High Pass. The journey was far from easy, but they did not fall into any goblin tunnels or run into any enemies, and the ponies and the wolves bore the grunt of the burden. Without any hint of complaint or weariness they climbed, bearing the dwarves, Vinca, and Bilbo mile after mile, up and up, until at last they crested the mountain and began to travel down the other side.

For Kíli, there was nothing to do but ride, and watch. He watched his mother a lot – almost constantly, in the first few days. Learning that she was with child had shaken him, and deeply. Even if everything went as it should, if the baby grew strong and healthy, pregnancy would make her vulnerable. Slower, more careful, pained and potentially burdened with vomiting and dizziness and a dozen other side effects – and that was only if it went well. If it did not – if the baby got sick, or died, if his mother got sick, or died –

It was not a thought he liked to entertain, but one that haunted his mind nevertheless, so he watched for any sign of change in Dís. So far, there was nothing alarming. The small bump she had hidden from them so easily was growing, and growing steadily, as far as he could tell. He had noticed that she often shifted her feet and held them up, but she assured him gently that swelling of the feet was perfectly normal, and nothing more than a discomfort. She had to stop to relieve herself more often than before, but there was nothing dangerous.

When he was not watching his mother, Kíli was watching the world around him. He watched the tracks and the paths and the peaks and the valleys, staring for any sign of foes until his eyes hurt.

So far, there had been nothing.

That did not comfort Kíli. Not when his kith and kin were inside the mountains, in a dead city last populated by goblins.

Nevertheless, Kíli and his companions reached the top of the mountain and passed over, beginning their descent with no trouble to speak of. In fact, there was a little good luck. After being battered rather badly at the gates of Moria, Luno had recovered enough to bother Kíli and Kanna until the dwarf returned to Luno's back. Also, Bragi and Ehren both began to eat normally again, which relieved him no end.

Without the eagles to carry them swiftly away, descending the mountains took a long time in itself. The days rolled by until nearly two weeks had passed from that hell at the gates, and Kíli knew that if all had gone well, Frodo and the others should be in Lothlórien. He hoped that they were, he prayed with every fibre of his being that they were alright.

He had no idea – he had no way of knowing – that the fellowship had already left the land of the Galadhrim, and were well on the way to the falls of Rauros, by now.

Kíli just kept watching. Watching the mountains, and the horizon, and the land below.

The cry of an eagle reminded him to look up, as well, and he saw a great bird circling above them. Luno stiffened, his hackles raising, and Kíli reached for his bow, but before he could nock an arrow the eagle swept down and perched on a rock before Fíli, who rode at the head of the group.

It was not a Great Eagle, such as those who had borne the company of Thorin Oakenshield two decades ago, but it was still half as tall as Bilbo, and its eyes and talons were sharp.

At once, Kíli's brother drew a knife, but the eagle let out a shrieking call and the wolves responded with a chorus, snarling and whining and growling like children clamouring for news. Fíli paused, and glanced at Kíli, who felt his heart speed up in his chest.

The eagle tossed its head and Luno whined, his ears flattening back against his head. He looked over his shoulder at Kíli, the whites of his eyes clearly showing.

"What is it?" Kíli asked, looking from the wolf to the eagle, and then back to his wolf. "Is he giving us a warning?" Luno nodded, sharply, and Kíli straightened. "Of what? Orcs? Goblins?" Luno nodded, twice, and gave a sad sigh, raising his paw and pointing toward the east. "On the mountain, or below it?" Kíli asked carefully, and Luno bowed his head right down. "Below it…" Kíli's blood ran cold. "Beorn's lands?" Luno threw his head back and howled mournfully, and the eagle ruffled its feathers.

"We're in for trouble," Kíli called grimly over his shoulder. "There are orcs before us." Behind him, the others muttered in dismay, but Kíli ignored them for the moment. Scratching Luno's ears, he asked, "Can we avoid them? Pass unseen?"

Luno whined at the bird, and the eagle squawked. Luno shook his head and snorted, before tossing his head upwards – movements that always meant maybe.

"Then we keep quiet," said Fíli authoritatively. "We keep quiet, we keep low, and we avoid confrontation wherever we can. No talking, if it can be avoided. Stick with Iglishmêk. And we will make no fires, and rest only when we can find shelter. Amad, Vinca, Bilbo, speak if you are struggling. We will help. Nori, Vinca and take up the rear, you have the keenest eyes of us all."

One of the other wolves pushed his way to the front of the group, so that his nose was mere inches away from the eagle. It was Denahi, and he gave a howl and a snarl, and the eagle replied with a glare and an indignant squawk. Denahi growled, and the eagle cried again, and took flight. Without another word, the company began making their way down the mountain, each with eyes opened and ears strained for any hint of orcs. They heard nothing.

They did not rest that night. Instead, they rode quietly on, keeping the pace at a brisk walk. They had to conserve energy for any fights that may come, and yet they had to be as swift as they could. They were only ten, the sooner they reached the mountain, the sooner they were safe. And if Beorn's lands were having trouble with orcs, they would find no sanctuary there.

The last time they had sheltered from orcs with Beorn's, the skin-changers house had been burnt to the ground. Kíli did not want that to happen again.

If what Legolas said at the council was still true, the Woodland Realm would have little help to offer its allies, either. Just two days ago, Glóin had admitted that the loyalty of Esgaroth still could not be guessed.

"With every day that passes, more and more folk are pouring into New Dale, with rumours of talks between the master and the men of Mordor. She may yet hold, we know not. But I would not trust to Lake-town. Not anymore."

And already, folk from New Dale were moving provisions and belongings into the mountain, in anticipation of the attacks that would come. So Kíli and his companions would not really be safe until they were inside Erebor.

And they were a month away from Erebor, at best.

They left the mountain at dawn, travelling into the thick woods that spilt out before it. They were in Beorn's land now, a region that stretched from the Misty Mountains into the outskirts of Mirkwood, and had a growing population of men and skin-changers who called it home. They were known as the Beornings, for it had been Beorn who united them.

Some said the Battle of the Five Armies had made him yearn for an army of his own, but others – Kíli among them – liked to think that the friendships Beorn had created had lured him out of isolation. Whatever the cause, Beorn had travelled for half a decade, gathering the scattered peoples of the lands surrounding his own. Those who chose to follow him formed a roaming people, for a time, while Beorn sought out the few packs of skin-changers that had survived the wrath of Azog.

Then, with a following of nigh on six hundred people and a wife and son of his own, Beorn had returned to his lands. They had begun their lives as a single people in tents and huts, but had since built villages and farms of their own, often building around trees rather than hewing them down. Their bakeries were legend, and their chief village, Beorvin, always been a place of warmth and merriment and story-telling.

Bróin always said it would be paradise if the folk there would only eat meat.

But Beorvin was also small. All their villages were – they never grew large enough to be called even a small town. Many of the Beornings liked their privacy, and as such, though they were ever connected, they were a small people spread across a great realm.

And though their population had swelled in the past two decades they were a very young people – the eldest of those born when the Beornings had still been roaming were but twenty or twenty-one years old. Even Grimbeorn, who had a son of his own, was merely nineteen. A man, but a young man by anyone's standards. Kíli did not think it an exaggeration to guess that half of their people were children under the age of fourteen.

Kíli's blood ran cold. If hordes of orcs were swarming the lands of the Beornings, a community saturated with children, a community scattered, a community barely out of its infancy –

It did not bode well. Neither did the silence they found at the base of the mountain.

Usually, the land of the Beornings was filled with birdsong to rival the Shire, and an abundance of animals who called the area home. Now, it felt like an empty room. The only bird they caught sound of was an eagle – quite possibly the same bird as before – whose mournful cry reached them two days after they had last heard it. But there was no sign of any messenger, verbal or non-verbal, so Fíli led them silently on.

Or rather, the wolves led them on, steering them often away from the path, and leading them away from dangers that the dwarves could not yet see or hear. They were nervous and restless, with their noses ever raised and ears ever twitching, and their dark eyes scoured the woods relentlessly. Luno's tail was tucked between his legs, and remained so no matter how often Kíli rubbed behind his ears.

Fíli held up his hand and halted the group, signalling with Iglishmêk that they would rest for a few minutes to relieve themselves, and eat a little, and let the wolves sit down for a moment. As they did, Kíli's eyes roamed over the group, doing their hourly headcount.

And his stomach dropped. They were missing someone.

"Luno," he murmured, "Where is Denahi? Where's your brother, boy?"

Luno gave a sad sigh, and licked Kíli's nose. Kíli raised his hand in the air to get everyone's attention and silently repeated the question. Vinca was the only one to sign back anything other than "I don't know."

"He peeled off when the eagle cried," she signed, a confused look on her face. "I thought he would be back by now."

Kíli glanced at Fíli, but his brother shook his head. "If he is not back when we leave," he signed, "he must follow. He is a wolf, Kíli, not a puppy. He can hold his own, and do what he wishes, for that matter."

Kíli sighed, and nodded. Bilbo passed him a piece of lembas bread from Elrond, and gave him a silent hug. They ate, and they rested for half an hour, and then they remounted. And Denahi did not return.

 _What am I going to tell Merry?_ Kíli thought, his heart aching. _He'll be so upset…_

But once again, there was nothing Kíli could do but watch. He could not call out and give away their position, he could not go off on his own and hunt Denahi down. All he could do was watch, and hope that he came back.

The other wolves rode closer than ever, and led the company ever on, deeper and deeper into the silent territory of their former master.

* * *

It was safe to say that Frodo and Sam were well and truly lost. It had been six days since they had parted from their friends and crossed the river, and in that time what had they achieved?

Four scraped knees, seven stubbed toes, and one nasty bump to the shin. And still, they were no nearer to finding the way out of the maze of razor sharp rocks around them. Frodo and Merry had anticipated that they might be forced through the Emyn Muil, and they had marked a path out on their maps as best they could. But the map was in a pack back at camp, and Frodo was doing it blind.

They had left so much behind. And though it had been six days, nigh on a week, no one had caught them up. No one. When night fell, there came a feeling that Frodo and Sam were not as alone as they thought they were, a feeling that someone, somewhere, was watching them. But it was not a good feeling. And there had been neither sight nor sound of any other soul.

They should have caught up by now. The rest of the fellowship, they should have easily reached Frodo and Sam with how ridiculously lost they had become. So where were they? Frodo's family, his friends, his fellowship – had they been caught? Killed? Worse?

Where _were_ they?

"Not that way!" Sam said, grabbing Frodo's arm and wrenching him from his thoughts. "That way curves back on itself, we've passed it before. We're going round in circles."

Frodo groaned, staring at the path. Sam was right. As usual. "Of course we are…"

The stone before him was familiar – he had only narrowly avoided concussion this morning from a rock that jutted out at head height. He sighed, staring up at the clouded sky and trying to get his bearings. Beside him, Sam shuffled, fiddling with the straps of his pack and pursing his lips.

"What is it?" Frodo asked slowly. "What's on your mind?"

"I, I was just thinking," Sam said, looking more and more uncomfortable by the moment. "About something Bofur taught me…"

Frodo waited, raising his eyebrows when Sam did not speak. "Well?"

Sam sighed. "Well – you know how Mister Dwalin always said that when you throw a ball you ought to look where you're throwing, because your hands'll follow your eyes? Well, old Bofur says it's the same with most things. That your body goes the way your brain's looking. He says it can happen when you're on the road. That if your mind wanders, your feet'll wonder too. Frodo – I think we're going around in circles because… well, because we don't want to find our way out of here."

A sick feeling dropped into Frodo's gut, and he turned away. "What do you mean, Sam?"

Sam sighed, striding towards him with a look of miserable determination and putting a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "I mean, Frodo, that we're stalling. The longer it takes us to get through this hellish place, the longer it gives the others to catch us up, and we know that. So, we're going in circles to give them more time. But we shouldn't, we really shouldn't. It's not safe, it's not smart – and we're supposed to meet them all _tomorrow_. A week, Nelly said. If we're not there…"

Frodo sighed, and bowed his head. "I suppose you're right, Sam. But even when I think about it, I don't really know which way to go."

"Then we climb," said Sam firmly. "We climb like Old Bilbo did in Mirkwood. Climb to find the sun."

For a moment, Frodo considered this. True, Bilbo had had a tree to climb – not jagged rock formation with sword-sharp edges. But then again, Bilbo had not been raised by dwarves and wolves. He took a deep breath and sighed.

"Alright, then. I'll go first. Keep a lookout, Sam, I'll have to concentrate."

"Aye," Sam nodded sombrely. "Watch you don't fall."

"Good advice," said Frodo dryly. "Thank you."

He stared up the rock faces around him, cautiously choosing which one to climb. He chose the one that looked easiest to ascend and studied the path he would try to take. Climbing rock came much less naturally to him than climbing trees, but is was still something he had done for fun in Erebor. With much more care than usual, Frodo began to ascend.

The rock bit into his fingers and jutted out, scraping at his knees and feet as he rose, but he ignored it, finding footholds as best he could, and ignoring the way his fingers hurt when they gripped the stone. Gritting his teeth, pushed himself higher and higher, until at last he reached the top. There was not exactly much space to stand – the top of this particular rock was little more than a point.

They rose all around him, other rocks with equal or lesser space, plenty of places to fall to. The Emyn Muil seemed to go on forever, a sea of dark stone, until he turned to his right and saw a dim land beyond it, and many, many miles away, a ring of black mountains silhouetted against the sky. Smoke rose from beyond them. The ring sang, and dragged his heart to rise, even as his stomach plummeted.

Mordor.

Well, at least he knew which way it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. Frodo whirled around, so fast that he almost lost balance. He wobbled for a moment, throwing out his arms as his feet scrambled for firmer ground, but by the time he was out of danger of falling, whatever it was had gone. He narrowed his eyes, staring at a nearby boulder. There were a few small pebbles tumbling down its side.

"Come on, Sam," he called. "Up and over. There's no easy path around, you'll have to climb over this one. But I know the way. Let's go."

Frodo kept a watch on the boulder as Sam rose, waiting until Sam was perched precariously on the top beside him before he spoke. "There's someone here," he whispered. "We are being watched – I do not know who by, but if it was one of the others they would not have hid from me. We must be careful."

Sam went a little pale, but his jaw set, and he gave a curt nod. As quickly as they could, they scaled down the other side of the rock and returned to the dusty ground. They wove their way east as best they could reckon, skirting around the crags where they could, and climbing over them where avoiding them was impossible. For the first time in days, Frodo felt like they were actually making progress.

And for the first time in days, he was absolutely certain that they were being followed. He still had not seen or heard anything that could prove it, but he felt it in his bones. He just knew. And he had a feeling he knew who – or what – it might be. The ring seemed to know too, but it was being very quiet. Almost as if it was reluctant…

His hand rose towards it, but when he caught what he was doing he scowled, and grabbed at his shield instead. It comforted him a little, but also reminded him of what he had seen in the Mirror of Galadriel. Frodo, a child, curled up in Thorin's lap. Thorin, asleep and alone, dropping his shield. Ever since Lórien, he had worried about that. He doubted that the Mirror would just show Thorin taking a nap.

They walked until the dark became dangerous. Night fell thick and fast around them, and the clouds veiled what little moonlight the sky had to offer, and it became impossible to pick their way through the maze around them. So, instead, they set out their bedrolls, and they both laid down.

"Are you sure about this?" murmured Sam, so quietly that Frodo could barely hear him.

"Yes," Frodo replied, just as quietly. He closed his eyes. "Just as long as we don't actually fall asleep."

That was easier said than done. The moment he let his eyelids close, sleepiness flooded him from his toes up to his head, but he fought against it, straining his ears.

Waiting.

Waiting.

And then came a voice, one he had imagined in nightmares, a voice he had heard Bilbo use, a voice that dripped with malice and hatred, and hissed like a snake.

"Where is it, where is it?" it hissed, and Frodo swallowed. It sounded as though the voice was coming from directly above him.

Keeping as still as possible, Frodo opened his eyes just a little slit, and peered up through his eyelashes. Slinking down the rock-wall above them, using all fours like some wretched spider, was a creature that Frodo had never seen before.

A creature he knew at once.

Gollum.

"My Precious, my Precious!" he breathed, drawing closer and closer to the hobbits below. "It's ours, it is, and we wants it. The thieves, the thieves, the filthy little thieves, lying there with my Precious, my Precious, Gollum!"

The hair on the back of Frodo's neck stood on end and he readied himself. Just a little closer, just a little closer –

"It's _ours,"_ snarled Gollum, "It's ours!"

And Frodo felt the creature's hand brush against his hair.

He sprang upwards and Gollum gave a shriek, but the hobbit was too quick. Frodo seized Gollum's hand and wrenched him down from the rock, and Sam grabbed onto the creature's other arm. Squealing as though he had been stuck with a knife, Gollum flailed and tossed his weight from side to side, but Frodo and Sam were strong, and expecting a fight, and they held fast. Even when Gollum's foot flew up to strike Sam in the chin, they kept their grip firm, until Gollum threw back his head and wailed, going limp as a dead fish.

He began to sob, odd, choking, sounds that tore pathetically from his throat and wracked his skeletal form, and Frodo thought back to what Bilbo had said about Gollum. To what Bilbo had said when Frodo asked why he did not just kill Gollum in the first place.

 _"Gandalf said it best, and he's right, my lad. The greatest courage is knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one. Killing Gollum would have done no good for me, and he was not a creature like an orc or a goblin, unable to feel love or pity or care. Although, that said, don't feel that you have to kill every orc you see either, Frodo. No matter what the dwarves say, you kill only when it's in defence of other life, or to provide for your table."_

It hurt to think of Bilbo, it burnt to think of Gandalf, but Frodo swallowed, and stopped Sam before he could reach for his knife with a small shake of his head. Between them, Gollum wailed louder, his head thrown back and his chest rising and falling in deep, heaving movements.

"We'll tie him up," Frodo said softly. "Decide what to do with him."

"Decide?" cried Sam indignantly. "Why, we should kill him Frodo! That's what he was going to do to us!"

"Perhaps," said Frodo, staring into Gollum's pale, watery eyes. "But is that his fault, or the fault of the ring?"

"His – does it matter?" Sam sounded rather incredulous.

"It matters, Sam," Frodo said, a little sharper than he had intended to, as his hand twitched up towards his neck. "It matters."

"Alright," said Sam, shrugging in surrender. "But let's tie him and be done with it. We're running low on time, Frodo."

"I know. I know."

They bound him quickly, hand and foot, but he shrieked at the touch of the rope, and writhed on the floor as though his body was being wracked by lightning.

"It burns!" he shrieked, "it burns us, burns us precious! Nasty, nasty, elvish rope – take it off us! Take it off us!"

"Don't," said Sam sharply, when Frodo's hands moved toward Gollum's. But Frodo checked anyway – the bonds were not too tight, and there was no sign of irritation on the creature's skin.

"Be quiet," Frodo told Gollum firmly, a hand on his sword's hilt. "We are going to discuss what to do with you, and all this shouting will make it hard to do. If you don't want us to simply leave you here to starve, you will stop screaming and behave yourself."

Gollum collapsed dramatically to the ground, gasping and clawing at the ground with a soft keen, but he saw Frodo's blade and he kept quiet.

" _I don't trust him,"_ said Sam, slipping into Khuzdul with ease _. "Not one bit – we should leave him here, Frodo. Just leave him, if you don't want to kill him."_

" _But it would kill him_ ," Frodo argued in the same tongue. _"And if we are to kill him, it would be kinder to do it outright. But I don't think that we should."_

Sam sighed, putting his hands on his hips. _"Look, I don't like killing, Frodo, I don't like it any more than you do, but we're not safe unless we do, see?"_

" _But Gandalf said that Gollum may yet have a part to play,_ " protested Frodo.

Sam blinked. _"When?"_

 _"In Rivendell. He was talking to Bilbo about it, I was – passing. Gandalf said his heart told him that Gollum had some part yet to play, those were his words. But he did not call him Gollum. He used another name… Sméagol."_

The creature on the ground froze, going stiller than the stone around him. His head turned slowly, and his eyes fixed on Frodo, so wide that they were almost spheres. "What did you call us? What did it say?"

"That was your name once, wasn't it?" said Frodo, reverting to the Common tongue. "Sméagol. When you were still like a hobbit. When you still were much like us."

"Sméagol," whispered Gollum, his eyes glazing over as the word hissed from his lips "Sméagol… my name… my name… We had forgotten, precious, had forgotten our name, yes we had, precious, Gollum, Gollum-"

Sam cut over him, switching back to the secretive tongue of the dwarves. _"I don't care what he calls himself. Makes no difference to his ability to throttle us in our sleep. You realise, Frodo, what the choice here is? We either kill him, or we take him with us. We drag_ him _, sneaky and treacherous as he is, into Mordor with us. Because we sure as stone can't let him go."_

 _"No,"_ said Frodo slowly. _"We cannot let him go. But if we do take him with us…"_

Sam groaned. " _You've got to be joking?"_

 _"We have no maps,"_ said Frodo bluntly. " _No paths or plans – and the road around the marshes is dangerous. An extra pair of eyes could be of use. As could a guide."_

 _"A guide_?" cried Sam, his own eyes bulging almost as much as Gollum's. " _A guide? How could he guide us – how could we trust a single word he says?"_

Frodo said nothing. He simply stared at the pathetic creature on the ground before him, and watched him snivel and squirm. Finally, he sighed. " _At least then he has a chance, Sam."_

 _"A chance? For what?"_

 _"Redemption,"_ said Frodo quietly.

" _Redemp- does he deserve redemption?"_ asked Sam, his face taking on the same exasperated expression it took when he was arguing a moot point with one of the younger dwarflings.

Frodo shrugged. _"Who are we to say he does not?"_

Sam sighed, stroking his chin. Then, he shook his head, and threw his hands in the air. " _Very well, Frodo. It's your choice. But if I wake up with his hands around my neck, the first thing you'll hear after I stab him is 'I told you so.'"_

Frodo smiled a little, and turned to stare at Gollum face on. At Sméagol. The name was little nicer than 'Gollum', but it sounded more like a name, and less like a cough. And if they were going to let the wretch reclaim any of his humanity, a name would be a good place to start.

"Well, Sméagol," he said, trying to give his voice the same iron that Thorin used when addressing the guard. "We should like to let you out of those ropes, but for now, we cannot. Not when you might run away, and tell orcs or spies of our position." At once Sméagol began to whine, simpering protestations pouring from his mouth, but Frodo ignored him and continued to speak. "We cannot let you out unless you can give a promise that we can trust."

"We swears!" said Sméagol at once. "We swears to serve the Master, the Master who holds the precious. We swears upon – upon the precious!"

Frodo's hand automatically rose to wrap around the ring, and he paused. "The ring is fickle, and holds no alliance but to the Dark Lord."

"We swears," simpered Gollum, throwing himself down at Frodo's feet. "We swears…"

Frodo glanced at Sam, who shrugged. "I wouldn't," he said. "But it's your call, Frodo."

"I will hold you to your promise," said Frodo slowly. "I do not want to hurt you, Sméagol. In fact, I swear that I will not hurt you – unless _you_ break _your_ promise. But I warn you – if you do break your vow, if you betray us… The consequences will be dire, indeed."

Sméagol nodded almost frantically, holding up his hands like one praying, and Frodo untied Sam's knots – with a little difficulty. Thanks to the combined teaching of Bofur and old Gaffer Gamgee, Sam tied knots better than anyone Frodo knew. As soon as he was released, Sméagol scampered two steps back, but he did not run further, and kept his wary eyes on the hobbits.

"You know the way to Mordor?" asked Frodo, keeping his voice stern. "You've been there before?"

"Yes," said Sméagol, his voice quavering. "Yes, we knows the way, we knows…"

"You will lead us there," said Frodo. "You will lead us to the Black Gate, as soon as the sun rises."

Sméagol scowled at the name of the sun, but he caught the look on Sam's face and nodded hastily.

Frodo nodded himself, just once, and gestured to Sam. "Now, we are going to get some sleep, one at a time. If you try to run, or attack us, you will be breaking your vow, and I will be forced to break my vow not to harm you. Do you understand?"

Sméagol nodded again, so intensely that Frodo winced. Was this what the ring would do to him? Would he become this dishevelled, snivelling creature by his feet?

"I'll take first watch," said Sam darkly, his eyes on Sméagol. "I won't be able to sleep for a while yet."

Frodo doubted that he could sleep either, but he lay down beneath an outcrop and closed his eyes nevertheless. If Sméagol could find retribution, give penance for the wicked he had done… If Sméagol could put to rights what he had done, then surely Frodo could too. More than ever, he wished that he could speak to Bilbo. Just speak to him – apologise for taking – stealing – the ring, beg for understanding, for forgiveness, for advice. What he would give to hear Bilbo speaking to him, or listen to Dís hum him a lullaby.

He shivered. Dís would be showing by now – she had to be at least five or six months along. He yearned to speak to her too – to know that she was alright, that she was safe, and ready for whatever would come. More fiercely than ever before, he prayed that the baby would survive, for its own sake, but also for the sake of Dís, and Bilbo. If the worst happened to him, a new baby would help them cope, he was sure. Tears burnt his eyes beneath their lids, but he refused to open his eyes and release them.

Instead, he sighed, and sung silent lullabies in his mind until he fell into a fitful sleep.

Sam woke him late, only two or three hours before dawn, and Frodo was not happy about it. But he did not complain. It was for his sake, after all, that Sam had forsaken sleep. For Frodo's sake, and his safety. So instead of complaining, Frodo watched the world, and watched Sméagol, who also appeared to be sleeping, until the sun rose.

The sun of the seventh day.

By noon, between their resolution and Sméagol's directions, they reached the end of the Emyn Muil.

There was no one there.

"Perhaps they're further north, or south," Frodo said hopefully, but even as he craned his neck to look, he did not expect to see anyone.

"We'll wait till night falls," said Sam, sounding rather miserable. "I'm sure Gollum'll prefer walking in the dark anyway."

Frodo caught his friend's tone and swallowed. "You don't think they're coming?"

"I hope they are. But I don't know, Frodo. I don't know."

Frodo did not know either. He sat down, pressing his back against the stone and peering out at the stinking bog land before him. Looking would not make them arrive any faster. Sam, on the other hand, could not stay still, pacing back and forth and back and forth, while Sméagol lurked nearby.

The hours ticked by.

"What are they waiting for?" Sméagol said, approaching Frodo cautiously. "What are the hobbitses waiting for?"

"Our friends," said Frodo bluntly, in no mood to elaborate.

Sméagol's eyes widened, and he skittered backwards. "Elf friends?" he spat, looking at the bag that held the rope he had been bound with. "Nasty friends with nasty swords and-"

"They will not hurt you, Sméagol," said Frodo sharply, dropping his head to his knees. "Not if I tell them not to. Calm down, now."

Sméagol did not look convinced, but he nodded, and returned to skulking in the shadows beneath the Emyn Muil, away from the sun.

And the sun began to set.

Sam looked at Frodo hopelessly.

"Just another hour," said Frodo, standing and walking out to grab Sam's arm. "We'll give them another hour."

Nodding, Sam squeezed Frodo's arm back, and they both began to pace. To pace, and watch, and wait.

Until the sun set altogether.

"We have to go," Frodo said, his voice as hollow as his hope. "Come, Sméagol. Show us the way, now."

"No friends?" Sméagol asked, but Sam scowled at him.

"Don't you talk about it," Sam snapped, and Sméagol recoiled, darting in front of Frodo and hurrying on all fours towards the bog.

"This way, Master," he called. "This way now."

Frodo sighed, and put a hand on Sam's shoulder, pressing his forehead against his friend's. "It's just us now, Sam."

"Right you are," Sam mumbled. "Time to be brave, now, aye?"

"Aye," Frodo said, pulling away with a sigh. He grabbed onto Thorin's necklace and nodded. "Time to be brave. We have to see this done."

"We will," swore Sam. "We will."

And though he knew where he was going, and could see his destination before him in the moonlight, as Frodo stepped away from his fellowship and towards Mordor, it was safe to say that he felt well and truly lost.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! It's not my favourite, I'll be perfectly honest, and I found the taming of Sméagol particularly difficult to write, but it's necessary and needed to go here before the timeline gets too hard to follow.**

 **Anyways, I shall see you next time – in the mean time I thank you for reading and would encourage you to please review if you have the chance and anything at all to say – any feedback is deeply appreciated.**


	54. Chapter 54: The Maddening Wood

**Hey there! Thank you for my lovely reviews to the last chapter! Sorry for the second week of a late update, I'm exhausted and have been very busy. I'm pretty sure I'm happy with this one now (happy enough at least, but I'm always nervous writing new and iconic characters) so we'll just have to see. As ever, please forgive any typos.**

 **Chapter Fifty-Four: The Maddening Wood**

The first thought in Pippin's mind was that Nelly was right – he had gone well and truly mad. He must have gone mad. There was no other explanation.

Because there was a tree standing in front of him, a tree with a face. And the tree was talking.

"Hrum, hoom," said the tree, in a voice so deep that Pippin felt the world murmur. "So, these are the little orcs chasing squirrels from their trees."

Pippin blinked, staring at the eyes of the tree and hardly understanding its words at all. The eyes looked so old, as though there was a well beneath them full of deep memory, with the life sparkling like starlight over the surface. He found when he looked at them that he could not be afraid. He felt an odd sense of suspense, and a swell of curiosity, but no fear. It was like looking into history, and seeing history stare back at you.

Pippin's head began to spin. He wondered if this was what Bifur had felt like when he woke from the axe-wound, if exhaustion had finally broken his mind in two. Hopefully, Merry would be able to keep his own sanity long enough to get himself out of this mess. If he had to leave Pippin, that would be alright. Pippin was tired. It would not be too bad to stay here, in this forest, with the talking tree.

With two large, branch like hands, the tree reached out and plucked Merry and Pippin from their perch, and Merry yelled, grappling to keep his grip on Pippin with such ferocity that he scratched him. They were pulled apart, and Pippin supposed that he was probably just toppling out of the tree while he hallucinated, and poor old Merry was trying to catch him. He felt tired enough to fall out of a tree, after all. So very, very tired.

Maybe that was all it was. Maybe he was only dreaming.

"We're not orcs!" cried Merry, as the tree brought them up close to its face. "We're hobbits – halflings – we're _running_ from the orcs-"

Bewildered, Pippin stared at his cousin. If he was hallucinating, how could Merry know what the tree said?

 _Maybe he doesn't,_ Pippin thought. _Maybe I'm hearing things too, and Merry's talking to_ me _, and not that old tree…_

Or maybe, just maybe, there was a real life talking tree in front of him, and he was not mad at all. If that was the case, they were both being very rude. After all, his Mama had raised him with manners.

"We're hobbits, Mister Tree, sir," said Pippin firmly, nodding once, though it hurt his head a little to move it. "Who are you?"

"Tree?" said the tree, raising its bark eyebrows high. "I am no tree – I am an ent, and they call me many things. You may call me Treebeard, if you are a friend of the forest. Orcs are not friends of the forest – but perhaps you are not orcs, as I am not a tree." He drew the hobbits towards his face, and narrowed his ancient eyes. "You do not look like orcs, now I look closer. More, more like children, barum, elf children, perhaps. I have not heard of hobbits, and I do not recall such folk in the old songs. Child-like you may be, or you may be some orc spy. There are some who are fouler than they seem."

"We're not spies," said Merry quickly. "And we're always left out of the old songs, it seems. Our people live in the Shire, in the west, and some call us halflings. In Rohan, the men call us Holbytlan, though most there think us only myths. 'Hobbits' is the name we give ourselves."

"Oh?" frowned the tree. "Do not be too hasty in saying what you call yourselves, little Master. If you are not careful, you'll be letting me know your own true names next."

"We're not private about that," said Merry, and Pippin shot him a sharp look.

Hobbits may not be private about their names, but Merry and Pippin both had secret names of their own – names that some may argue were their 'true' names. All of the dwobbits had them, just as all dwarves had them. After a couple of years of living in Erebor, each of the hobbits were given Heart Names, names that were rarely spoken and never written, and names that the dwarves believed were bound to their souls.

"A Heart Name is used only three times," Fíli had explained to him. "When you are born – or in your case named – when you marry, and when you die. It is not the name your family will think of you by. They will always know you as Pippin, as you will always know me as Fíli. Fíli is what I call myself, what my family and friends call me. What my people call me. But my Heart Name is what Mahal will call me. When I die, it will be my Heart Name that leads me home. It is a name that no one can take from me. You can never tell anyone your heart name, Pippin. Not until you are married, at any rate. For now, those who need to know do."

And that was one instruction that Pippin had never failed to follow. It worried him, the idea that when he died, he might not end up in the same place as his dwarves. He knew that it would likely not change things, but he liked to think that clinging to his Heart Name would help to bring him back to them when he passed.

It was not something that this talking tree needed to know.

But when he caught the look, Merry gave a weary smile, and signed quickly in Iglishmêk. " _Birth names, not Heart Names."_ Then, he said aloud. "I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, but most folk just call me Merry. This is Pippin, as we call him, though his right name is Peregrin Took."

Treebeard's eyes widened, and he stared at them for a long moment. "You are a most hasty folk. Be careful who you give your names to – there are ents and ents, as they say. But those names suit you, I think. Merry and Pippin – they are nice names. Tell me, Merry and Pippin, what is going on? I see and hear and feel much from this forest, but there is more I would know. I feel something great is stirring. What is Gandalf up to?" His voice darkening, Treebeard gave a low, growl-like sound, "And burárum, what is this talk of orcs, and does it have aught to do with young Saruman in Isengard?"

Pippin opened his mouth to say that it certainly did have something to do with that awful man, thank you very much, but Merry beat him to it.

"Begging your pardon, Master Treebeard, but that's a long story, and even if we were to tell you quick, it'd take a long time, and you said not to be hasty. But before we do tell you, might you forgive us for asking what you're going to do with us, and whose side you're on? Did you know Gandalf?"

Pippin blinked. That was a very good point. He had not thought of that. Now that the initial shock of the talking tree was out of the way, he was beginning to feel sore again, in his aching legs and empty chest and his poor, empty stomach – not to mention his head. It felt very tight, as though he was wearing a hat that was far, far too small. And he was starting to feel dizzy again, too, as though there was nothing but space in his skull. Every so often, he had to blink away blurs from the world, as though he was trying to look through water.

"I know Gandalf," said Treebeard, drawing Pippin's attention again. "The only wizard who truly cares for the trees. Do you know him?"

Heart sinking low, Pippin hung his head. It was Merry who answered, in a low voice. "Yes, we knew him. He was a great friend."

"Then I am happy to answer your questions. If you are asking what I am going to do 'to' you, then the answer is nothing, not without your consent. But we may do some things together, now. So it is with sides – I don't know much about sides. My way is mine and yours is yours, as they say, but for a while our paths may go along together. Come, let us go. You can tell me your tale, and take your time with it."

"Where will we go?" said Merry. "We, we haven't any supplies, really, we've hardly any food…"

"Don't you worry, Master Merry," said Treebeard, settling the two hobbits into the crooks of his arms. His grip was gentle, and Pippin felt very safe. Safe from falling, safe from orcs – in fact, the only thing he did not feel fully safe from was falling asleep. He was so tired. "We shall go to my home – or one of them. I have drink that will keep you green and growing for a good long while."

"How far is it?" asked Merry, and Pippin frowned. His cousin was being rather rude – they had just been offered food and shelter and - "Only it's Pippin, Master Treebeard, he's exhausted, and injured, badly. The orcs – they nearly killed him, I'm afraid if he doesn't get some proper food and rest soon he'll get worse."

Guilt stirred in Pippin's heart. His cousin looked so drawn, so afraid. "I'm alright, Merry, really…"

"No, you're not," said Merry sharply, his eyes flashing. Pippin opened his mouth, but Merry was not having it. "Do you want proof? You're thin as a rake, you're slurring your words, your eyes keep glazing over - you're not alright, Pippin. You're very far from alright."

Treebeard gazed down at the hobbits, looking at Pippin with what looked like great pity. Pippin could not really tell. He was not always the best at reading faces, and the ent looked more like a tree than he did a man. His eyes still on Pippin, Treebeard turned and began to walk back into the forest. His long, meaningful strides were smooth, and Pippin hardly felt like he was moving at all. He was just swaying ever so gently, and felt a great sigh rise within him.

"Do not worry, Master Merry," said Treebeard, in a voice calm and slow. "I do not like to be hasty, but speed and haste are not one and the same, and we will soon be home. Perhaps for now, Master Pippin can get some sleep. When he wakes, you can tell me your tale."

"Don't wait," said Pippin, his head lolling to the side so that his cheek rested against Treebeard's arm. It was warm and smooth, like the bark of a young beech tree on a summer's day. That way, he could see Merry, and he met his cousin's eyes. "You won't wake me."

Understanding in his eyes, Merry gave a sad smile and nodded, speaking softly and calmly, speaking just to let Pippin hear him. To let him know he was still there. Pippin closed his eyes, and Merry began to talk of the hobbits of Erebor, and how they came to be there. Even as Pippin was tugged down into a deep slumber, Merry's voice fell gently around him. As long as Merry spoke, Pippin felt safe. As long as Merry spoke, the nightmares were chased away.

And then Pippin woke to silence.

At first he panicked, but even as his fear rose, sleep still clung to him, and he blinked fiercely, trying to open his eyes and flail his arms and catch his bearings. Before he could so much as gasp, Merry's hand squeezed his.

"It's alright, Pippin. We're safe now," he murmured, though he did not look like he thought them very safe. His brow was shrouded and low, and there was a tightness to his lips that suggested he was holding back tears. Concern was strong in his eyes, so strong that Pippin was afraid.

He glanced around quickly, and found that he was no longer in the arms of ent. Instead, he was lying on what looked like a smooth, stone table, with his head in Merry's lap. There was a leafy ceiling above him, and the floor seemed a very long way down, and a horrible thought seized him. Had they escaped the pawing orcs, only to be eaten by a talking tree?

"What is it?" he gasped, and found that his voice was raspier than he had expected it to be. "How long was I asleep?"

"Just an hour or two," said Merry, "it's alright, Pippin. Treebeard's gone to get something to drink."

That brought Pippin little comfort. "To drink with us or _with_ us?"

Merry's frown deepened. "What are you talking about?"

His fear rising up into his throat, Pippin grabbed Merry's wrist and tried to sit up, looking around and trying to see where they could run. There was a great, open doorway on one side of the room, and a tall, long stone bed, and odd lamps that glowed on their own with no visible flame, and he could hear the deep thrum of the end humming outside. "Merry, we're on a, a table, and-"

Merry swallowed and shook his head, guiding Pippin back down into his lap. "No, Pip, it's alright. I promise. He set us down here so I could see him when I was talking to him. So we could be more level. He doesn't sit much. In his words, he's 'not very bendable.' It's alright. Even if he does turn out to be some troll-like monster, you're going to be just fine. I won't let anything happen to you. Don't worry, Pippin." Merry smiled sadly, and gently poked Pippin's nose. "I don't think there's much chance of his being evil anyway. You'll remember why when he comes back."

Pippin shook his own head, but found that it hurt, and stopped. "Then why do you look so scared?"

Merry gave a hollow laugh. "I could answer without words if you had a mirror. You scared me, Pippin. I thought I'd lost you."

Guilt joining with fear to block up his throat, Pippin looked away, staring instead at the ceiling. It was alive, still, strong, green leaves, all small and vulnerable, all banding together to form something stronger. Something that could weather the rains. But could it weather a storm? Pippin was less sure of that.

"I'm sorry, Merry," he mumbled.

"I know. You ought to get some more sleep – after you've eaten, mind. You're not in any danger of getting fat any more."

Pippin frowned a little, and prodded at his stomach. It felt very empty, and very much smaller than it ought to be. He felt starved, and thirstier than he had been even in Mirkwood. His belly gave an almighty rumble, and as though the sound had summoned him, Treebeard came in through the tall door, carrying three large bowls.

"Well, now," he said appreciatively. "You're awake, Master Pippin, and just in time for a drink. Very good." As his deep, calm voice met Pippin's ears, and his gentle eyes found the hobbit's, Pippin remembered why he had not been afraid before. There was something about Treebeard that felt safe. Merry was right.

"Come on," Merry murmured, shifting his hands onto Pippin's back to help ease him into a sitting position. Pippin needed more help than he thought he would, and by the time he was upright there were lights dancing in front of his eyes.

When they faded, Pippin was able to see the bowl that Treebeard had placed down in front of him, and he peered inside curiously. His heart sank a little. Water may well be all you needed to keep a young tree growing, but a hobbit needed a little more than that. And it looked like water was all they had. Glancing at Merry, Pippin wondered how much lembas they had left. How long it would last.

"Drink up, my little friends," said Treebeard. "Master Merry has told me much of your adventures, though not all, I deem, and it seems you have faced many hardships. But you are safe now. Drink deep, and rest, and when you are rested, we shall think about what must be done."

Pippin opened his mouth to ask what had to be done, but Merry pushed a bowl towards him and gave him a meaningful stare. Obediently, Pippin took it, and found that it was so heavy his arms shook. The moment the water touched his lips, his eyes widened in surprise. It tasted so like water, but also like so much more than water. He could not name any one taste, nor even determine whether it was sweet or savoury or sour. Only that it was almost earthy, and tasted like a warm spring morning, like the sun on your face and the dew from soft grass between your toes. And as he drunk, his hunger waned, and his pain eased just a little. It was not like the orc-draught – he did not feel that he could run another hundred miles, nor that his pain was gone. It was more like the comfort of a well-cooked meal, one that dulled no pain, but helped you forget about grazed knees.

He did not realise how quickly he was drinking until the water splashed onto his face, and Merry tried to tug the bowl away.

"Slow down Pippin, you'll choke."

Pippin threw Merry's hand off and brought the bowl back up to his lips, but he obeyed, drinking more slowly until the whole bowl was drained. Treebeard laughed.

"I am glad that you like my ent-draught, Master Pippin. Little will give you greater nourishment."

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but all that emerged was a hiccup. Merry rolled his eyes. Treebeard did not seem offended – on the contrary, he gave Pippin a smile that crinkled around his eyes. Then, he drained his own bowl in one go, and placed it down on the table.

After a moment's pause, Merry cleared his throat. "If you please, Treebeard, I've told you our story. Is there anything that you can tell us, anything that could help us? About Saruman, perhaps? We know nothing of him other than his home, and that he is a traitor who bred the uruk-hai who captured us. But he is not far from here. You must know more."

Pippin shivered lightly. He did not want to know any more about Saruman. He wanted to forget that the wizard had ever existed.

"Then you know as much as I, Master Merry," said Treebeard. "Long ago he used to walk in my woods, and we would talk, on occasion. I would tell him much of the forest, of the ways of the woods, but I remember he never told me much in return. At the time I thought nothing of it, but now I know better. He was spying – learning my secrets, and now he uses them against me. It is the fault of Saruman that orcs run so freely in my woods, and it is Saruman and his foul folk who are felling good trees down by the borders, felling them that they may feed the forges of Isengard. Curse him – curse him, root and branch! Many of those trees were my friends – creatures I had known from nut and acorn; many had voices of their own that are lost for ever now. And there are wastes of stump and bramble where once there were singing groves. I have been idle. I have let things slip. It must stop!"

With a speed that Pippin would not have guessed the ent capable of, Treebeard thumped his hand on the table, and the odd glowing lamps sent out small jets of flame. Pippin jumped and fell, tumbling back into Merry's lap with a gasp. Merry's arms wove around him, but the older hobbit spoke eagerly.

"What are you going to do?"

Treebeard paused, his eyes on Pippin. "Well – I am getting too hot. I was very nearly hasty, and I feared I scared Master Pippin, here."

"No," squeaked Pippin.

"There is much that must be done," said Treebeard slowly. "Many who must be called, many who might come. And come they will, and we shall march to Isengard. Together, we will help my people, and yours. But night is falling, and you are both weary. You shall sleep here tonight, sleep here and rest. I have some errands to run ere I sleep myself, but nothing will harm you while you remain in this house."

"Thank you, Treebeard," murmured Merry, and Pippin added a mumbled thanks of his own. The ent lifted them down from the table, onto a soft bed of grass on the ground, and then he strode out of the doorway. It seemed to be made of living branches, and they closed a little behind him. The lanterns dimmed.

Almost at once, Pippin dropped back down onto his back, resting his head on Merry's arm. He felt his cousin drape his own jacket over Pippin, and he mumbled a protest, but already sleep was calling to him, and within moments, he was under.

And then Pippin was woken again.

It felt like he had only just fallen asleep when Merry began shaking his arm. Panic could not take him this time – he was too tired, too deeply asleep, and also, if Merry wanted to wake Pippin in a crisis he would put a hand over the younger hobbit's mouth. There was no hand on Pippin's mouth. Just on his arm, shaking him. Pippin groaned, and tried to roll over, but Merry shook him harder.

"Wake up, Pippin, wake up!" he said, and there was an odd note to his voice – a surprise, a joy, an awe – Pippin could not place it, and quite frankly he did not care to. Not until Merry added, "Look who's here!"

Damn it. Now Merry had woken Pippin's curiosity, and that was harder to keep asleep sleep. He opened his eyes onto darkness, or at least only a very dim light, and struggled to sit up. Merry's arm wove around his back and helped to pull him up, and Pippin rubbed his eyes and looked ahead.

Then he froze.

And then he rubbed his eyes again, harder, but the person before him was still there.

"Am I dreaming?" Pippin whispered hoarsely, grabbing onto Merry's arm.

"No," said his cousin, and the choked awe and joy and sorrow made sense now – almost.

"Am I mad?" he asked, in a trembling voice. Talking trees were one thing, but –

"No," laughed the man before him. "No, Master Peregrin, you are not mad. Not yet, at any rate."

"Gandalf?"

The wizard smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled, but the smile and the twinkle were the most familiar things about him. His matted hair was white and straight and clean, and he was wearing robes of brilliant white, not grey. He looked sterner, with deeper lines in his face, but no longer did he seem to bear the shadows of Mordor. His cheeks were no longer hollow, and his eyes no longer as haunted, and he no longer looked thin enough to break in two.

"Yes, Pippin. It is I. Though when I last saw you, I was known as Gandalf the Grey. Now, I am Gandalf the White," he said, in the same voice as ever, as though he was explaining top a child why the sun went down at night.

"But, but you," choked Pippin, tears rising unbidden to his eyes and throat. "You died, we saw you, saw you fall."

"I fell," agreed Gandalf. "But my work is not yet done, and I have been sent back."

"I'm sorry!" Pippin blurted out, before anyone else could say anything else. He had to, had to, his guilt had been building in him since Moria, and now, faced with Gandalf, alive and breathing before him, it was too much to bear. "I'm so sorry, Gandalf, I – if I didn't drop that stupid stone, if I'd woken you all quicker, if-"

"My fall was not your doing, Peregrin Took," said Gandalf sternly. But then he smiled, gently, and crouched down beside Merry and Pippin. He took Pippin's hands in his own, and Pippin felt the warmth of life in the wizard. His eyes filled with tears, and Gandalf spoke again. "Nevertheless, I forgive you, my young Took. Whatever guilt you carry, you can let go of it now. It is forgiven, and in the past. Why, would I be here with you now if I harboured any anger towards you?"

"Perhaps," mumbled Pippin, unwilling to believe that he would get off so easily. "Perhaps you want to turn me into a frog. Or you could be here to see Merry, or Treebeard, or-"

"Hush, my lad." Gandalf smiled sadly, squeezing Pippin's hand. "While I had every intention of talking to Treebeard, I had not planned on visiting his home. Not even when he told me that he had found you in the forest, and taken you here. You are safe enough with him, and as long as you are safe I can attend to other things. But then Treebeard told me of Merry's fears, and told me how close your call with the orcs truly was…"

Pippin felt his cheeks burn red, and he looked away. He was only worse than Merry because he was weaker. He was only struck more because he was an idiot, who provoked the uruks and made pointless dashes for freedom.

"You have been very brave," murmured Gandalf. "Very brave indeed, my lad. But it is not only Merry you had worried." He placed his hand on Pippin's forehead, and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he smiled softly again. "You will be alright. I don't see anything that will cause lasting damage – we got there in time, it seems. There's nothing a some good rest and nourishment won't fix."

Merry let out a sigh of relief and relaxed. "Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard nodded, his eyes sparkling. He put a hand on Pippin's cheek, and the other on Merry's, and Pippin felt his eyes prick with tears. "I am very glad to see you both safe. Very glad indeed."

"You too," mumbled Pippin, dragging his sleeve across his watering nose. "I'm very glad you're alive, Gandalf."

Gandalf smiled, and then stood up. "I must go – there is much that needs my attention. You already know that this war is greater than two small hobbits. But I shall see you soon, I expect."

Pippin's heart stumbled. Was Gandalf leaving again, leaving them right after he had returned? Were they to sit here and wait like children? Had Uglúk simply knocked him a little too hard on the head after all?

"We can come with you!" said Merry, leaping to his feet. "Gandalf, we can help."

Gandalf nodded. "You can indeed, and you will. For now, it is important that you regain your strength. Stay with Treebeard – you will find that you will help each other, and help your friends besides. Take care, my dear young hobbits."

He turned, and walked towards the door, and a great pressure began to build in Pippin's chest. He was tired, so tired and so scared, and so scared that he was going mad, so scared that he would wake up in the morning tied to the back of an orc.

"Wait!" he cried, clambering to his feet and ignoring the way that the world span around him. He threw himself forward, stumbling like a toddler until he reached the wizard. Then, Pippin threw his arms around Gandalf's waist and hugged him as tightly as he could. "Good luck."

Gandalf jolted slightly as Merry crashed into his other side, embracing him with more strength than Pippin had in him. The wizard laughed, ruffling their hair and patting their backs for a lingering moment.

"Who needs luck," he chuckled, "When you have friends like hobbits?"

Drawing away, he nodded at them once more, and then strode from the room. They could hear him talking to Treebeard, but Pippin was too tired to eavesdrop. He leant against Merry, who brought him back down to their grassy bed.

"I promise you can sleep now," Merry said. "I won't wake you again, not unless it's an emergency."

Pippin nodded, and yawned. "If Frodo turns up, he can wait till morning."

"Aye," said Merry, making himself comfortable and letting Pippin snuggle against him. "I told you it would be alright. I told you."

For a moment, Pippin smiled, closing his eyes. Merry closed his eyes, too, and in mere moments he was asleep. But as exhausted as he was, Pippin was afraid to follow. If he did wake, and find it was all a dream, he would not fight the uruk-hai any longer. He would not have it in him.

But when Pippin woke ten hours later, it was to the morning sun filtering down through a bright ceiling of leaves, to Merry breathing deeply beside him, and to a warm, grey cloak that smelled faintly of pipe-weed, tucked snuggly around them both.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, and that I caught most of the typos. I'm exhausted at the moment, so I probably didn't, but hey ho. I know that we didn't see too much of Treebeard, in a way, with Pippin being so out of it, but we'll get more of him soon. And Gandalf's back – bet you didn't see that coming, lol.**

 **Please do let me know what you think, I love hearing from you guys! Until next time, thanks for reading and take care of yourself :D**


	55. Chapter 55: The Second Interrogation

**Hey there! Thank you for my lovely reviews for the last chapter! I'm sorry we're a day late, I've been very busy again. As ever, please forgive my typos, and I hope that you enjoy.**

 **Chapter Fifty-Five: The Second Interrogation**

As it turned out, being the political prisoner of an evil wizard in the middle of a war that might end the earth was truly, incredibly, boring.

Bróin had woken to pale sunlight, creeping into their cell through a slit of a window that was set high above their heads. Dust had danced in the beams that fell on the black, iron bars of the door, and Bróin had found Nelly still asleep, with her arms still around him. Her head had cut off the circulation to his arm, which had begun to fall asleep, but Bróin had no desire to move or wake her.

Looking around, he had properly taken in the cell for the first time – though he and Nelly had slept on the floor, there were two benches that hung from chains on the wall, big enough for a small Man to use as a bed. If there were indeed two Menfolk kept in here, Bróin suspected that it would feel very small indeed, but it was not so bad for a dwarf and a dwobbit. By the base of one of the beds, nearer to the door, there was a small hole in the ground for a privy. He was glad it was not just a bucket.

But that was it – the extent of what was in the cell, of what he could see. And boredom began creeping into his heart, creeping into the place where his fear had been. It was eased a little when Nelly woke, and they talked, but they could not speak much without the conversation rolling around to their fears, and neither wanted to talk about that. So their talk faltered, and the boredom grew stronger around them.

It was not even eased much when the orcs arrived that morning. They forced more of their draught down Bróin's throat, and rubbed it into his arm until the swelling went down, and he could no longer feel the pain of the break. But then they just threw in another stale bread roll and another mug of water, and left again. Left them alone, to their boredom.

They stood, and stretched a little, pacing the small cell and attempting to massage some life into their aching limbs, but when Bróin winced a little, Nelly made him sit back down, and in her knee-length rag of a tunic, she did not seem up for any gymnastics, either. Instead, they settled back down on their spot of floor, and studied the locks keeping them chained down. They murmured about picking them, as though they thought there was any chance of doing so without tools.

As the day waned, Bróin tried passing time with stories of battle and old fairy-tales, but they were all stories that Nelly had heard a hundred times before, and he had no story she did not know. She meandered towards the path of memory, speaking of better times, but it just made Bróin feel worse, and he held his tongue until she got the message, and stopped speaking.

Of course, boredom was certainly preferable to torture, but as night bled darkness into their cell and the uruk-hai forced their medicine on him again, Bróin thought that it was not _that_ much better.

The night grew colder than he expected it to, and Nelly shivered even beneath the elven cloak. They huddled close together, and Bróin heard the smattering of rain outside, and watched its shadow pass over the thin patch of paler ground, where the moonlight came through the window. He could smell it outside, the earthy smell of fallen rain, but it was coupled with smells of burning and oil and blood and filth – of refuse and waste and death.

Hoping that he might perhaps find some solace – or entertainment – in dreams, Bróin closed his eyes, and let himself drift to sleep, but he woke again come morning with no recollection of any dream. No dream other than the nightmare they were in.

The uruk-hai visited again, as they had the previous morning, and again they forced their draught down Bróin's throat, and slathered his arm in their balm. Again, the medicines burnt, and healed as they went, and he found that there was no longer so much as an ache in his arm. Not even a twinge. The last time he had broken it, it had taken months to fully heal, and weeks to reach such a definite lack of pain.

He stared at his arm as the uruk-hai left wordlessly, and Nelly frowned a little, taking it delicately in her hands. Her fingers were cold against his skin, very cold, and he glanced at her. Her skin was an odd shade of pale grey, and there were heavy rings around her eyes.

"You alright?" he murmured, and she glanced up at him, narrowing her eyes slightly in confusion.

"I'm fine," she said, shaking her head a little. She looked back at his arm, and gently ran her fingers over the place where the bruising had been, brushing her thumb across the break in the bone. "How's your arm? It looks good – less inflamed, less… broken. I can't _feel_ anything wrong."

Bróin laughed a little. "Yeah, it feels better to me to. But I can't imagine how – if those swords didn't break it, falling onto those steps and being hung up like a butchered carcass did the trick. But I feel like I could stand on my hands if I have to, I – I have full function -" he clenched and unclenched his fists, wiggling his fingers to prove the point, "-I just, don't know how…"

"He's a wizard, Bro," she said, almost chidingly. "Just because he's an evil one doesn't mean he doesn't know how to heal. You must be more useful to him in one piece."

Bróin shrugged, staring down at his arm, and her fingers. "Must be my dashing good looks."

Nelly gave a half smile. "Or your papa. You're worth a pretty ransom, Bróin."

"Even though I'm not a halfling?" he teased, but she grew even paler, and he took her hand. "Nelly?"

"So – he knows, now," she said slowly, refusing to meet Bróin's eyes. "He knows that I don't have it, that I'm not the Ringbearer – that's what he wanted hobbits for. But he knows I don't have it, so what use am I? Yes, my parents are lords, but they don't have money, not like your Papa does."

Bróin felt as cold as Nelly's hands, and he squeezed them. "Hey, don't be an idiot, Nelly. Ada would pay you out of here in a heartbeat, Thorin would, they all would-"

"I know," interrupted Nelly gently, smiling weakly at him. "But Saruman doesn't."

Bróin swallowed, and then sighed, and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held her close. "That why you're so pale?"

She shrugged, resting her head on his shoulder. "I think I'm just hungry. And tired."

"Shall I save you some of that draught, next time?"

 _"Ew!"_ Nelly laughed, digging Bróin in the ribs. "What would you do, spit it out at me? That's disgusting, Bróin."

Bróin laughed too, holding her a little tighter. "You'll be alright, Nell. I've got you."

"I've got you right back," she said, squeezing his arm. "Are you sure you're not in pain? It looked pretty bad, for a while."

"I don't know what's in that damned drink, but I feel fine," said Bróin honestly. "A little achy, but there's little pain. What about you? Are you sure you're just hungry and tired?"

She nodded. "And bored."

"Me too."

"D'you reckon if I stood on your shoulders, we could look out the window?"

"Of course," said Bróin, lifting his chained foot into the air. "If we didn't have these."

She nodded slowly, and then paused, looking sharply at him. Her tears twitched, and Bróin listened carefully. Footsteps. Soft, deliberate – not the tramping of orcs. Bróin took a deep breath and steadied himself, wiping his face of emotions the best he could.

And Saruman appeared at their door, and Bróin took back his thoughts about torture being only a little worse than boredom. He stiffened and tried to disguise his fear by drawing back his shoulders, raising his chin.

"You will stand when I address you," said Saruman coldly, and out of the corner of his eye, Bróin saw Nelly nod a fraction. They rose together, and stood together, side by side, still as stone. "I have come for more information. And to deliver some information to you."

Bróin longed to look at Nelly, but he did not, keeping his face impassive and his silence sure. Neither of them moved, or spoke, and Saruman gave a cold sneer.

"Well, aren't you both brave?" he said, the shadows of the bars falling over his face. "For a pair of half-grown scum from a tiny mountain. It should please you, Bróin, son of Bombur, that my envoy is on the way to your father as we speak. The terms are set, and if they are met, you may be free in as little as a month, off to scuttle back home. If they are not, you shall still be reunited with your father, do not fear. I will send him your head."

Bróin fought back a shudder, and he could see Nelly tensing out of the corner of his eyes. Saruman turned to her, and his smile grew colder.

"Does that comfort you? His end will be brief, after all, if it comes from my hands, and if my generous offers are refused, I will know that you are little use to me either. But, there is another way. You do not have to fester here, in these dungeons, unless it is your wish. If you give me the information that I want, you may help to build a great alliance between Isengard and Erebor, and when the world turns, and the war is won, you will be rewarded."

"I do not think our tiny mountain would be partial to such an alliance with a traitor, thank you," said Bróin politely, glaring at Saruman.

The wizard glared back, fury flickering in his eyes, and Nelly's hand wrapped around Bróin's protectively. Saruman spoke in a voice like ice, sharp and cold and clear as glass. "Very well – in that case I shall tell you that nothing you say here, no lie you spin or truth you twist, will be able to save Bilbo Baggins. I have sent five hundred uruk-hai north through the mountains, a mere fraction of my army. They will catch the ring-bearer ere he reaches the mountain. There is nowhere that can shelter him, for the orcs of Dol Guldur and Gundabad are ravaging the northern lands as we speak."

"You won't catch him," said Nelly sharply. "It's four hundred miles to the High Pass – if that is even the path he took – and by the time your uruks get there, Bilbo will be long gone."

Saruman's smile returned. "That may be true, for most. But I know that Baggins took the High Pass – Caradhras is too treacherous in winter, and there was no way through Moria for them. I have guards at the Gap of Rohan, but they have seen nothing. And reaching him in time – well. It is impossible for most folk, but not for Saruman, the Great. My wargs ride thrice as far as a wolf can in a day, twice as far as the wargs of Mordor, and they feel no pain or fear. I have forged a path through the mountains that will speed my army on. It will take them no more than five days to reach the lands of the Beornings. In less than a week, it will be over. They will catch them, and slaughter all there, save Baggins, and any other hobbits they find. And then you may see your precious Bilbo, and what fate I have instore for him."

Bróin had to fight to stop his jaw from dropping. Five hundred uruk-hai? Five _hundred?_ Against a group so small, against a pregnant Dís? Saruman had to be lying, there was no way that five hundred orcs could travel so far in so short a time. He had to be lying, or…

Or Bilbo was in big trouble.

"I don't believe you," said Nelly, and her voice was like stone. "I know of no way such a thing can be done. I think you are a liar."

Saruman raised his eyebrows, but he looked far too pleased with himself for Bróin to trust to Nelly's logic.

"You think I am a liar?" said Saruman, stepping up close to the bars. Nelly and Bróin both stepped back, and Saruman gave a soft laugh. "Perhaps I am, perhaps I am not. But I _am_ the most powerful wizard in Middle-Earth, and I have given haste to my army through spells even Gandalf could not imagine."

Anger flared in Bróin, and he narrowed his eyes. "Gandalf was ten times the wizard you will ever be, and he was no traitor!"

"Have you any proof, for either point?" asked Saruman lazily. "What great feats of magic did you witness? And how many times has he left your people in times of need, when he has not had need of you?"

"He banished the Nazgûl," replied Nelly, her chin rising higher. Bróin glanced at her for half a second, and saw sheer fury blazing in her eyes. "And he healed a dwarf who had been stabbed in the neck with a Morgul blade."

"And you think I could not do those things? You are a fool – my powers stretch far beyond such petty matters, though I do not expect you to understand. You are, of course, no more than a girl. A naïve, silly little girl, who wandered too far from home. But we are not here to talk of Gandalf. You are going to tell me about Erebor, and its defences."

Nelly gave a laugh, as cold as the wizard's. "What would a silly little girl know about that?"

"How big is the royal army?" said Saruman, almost lazily. He seemed so sure that they would give him answers, and it boiled Bróin's blood.

"You will never bring down Erebor," he snarled. "The walls are stronger than ever before, its defences are second to none, and-"

"A work in progress," said Saruman. "Twenty years is a pittance of time to form defences for a city as large as Erebor, even for dwarves. But I have no intention of launching a full assault. That shall be the province of Mordor, and their hoards will fall upon the mountain like storm waves on sandstone. The city will enter a siege longer than even the dwarves can endure, and eventually, the armies of Mordor will break in. Yet there are other ways to gain control over that mountain. How big is their army?"

"Well," said Bróin, his voice shaking as he tried to bridle his rage. "There's definitely more than two soldiers, and I think less than a million."

Nelly began to snicker, but Saruman pushed his staff through the bars and Bróin gasped, jumping back and pressing himself against the back wall. Silent as death, Nelly backed away with him, her eyes flickering between the wizard and the dwarf. Bróin's own eyes were trained on the staff, and it hovered a foot or so from his chest. It would reach him if Saruman wanted to, and he knew it.

And he knew what pain it would bring.

"You will answer my questions," said Saruman, and it seemed like the whole cell was growing dark, "or you will _suffer_ the consequences. I know how unlikely dwarven scum are to bend the knee, and I have not ruled out sending Thorin Oakenshield this little halfling's head to persuade him to agree to my demands."

Bróin's blood ran cold, and he tore his eyes away from the staff to stand in front of Nelly, even as she whispered frantically to him to stop.

"You're going to get yourself killed, Bróin-"

"You touch her, and I'll kill you," swore Bróin. "Don't touch her, don't even think about it."

"Then answer my question," said Saruman. "How big is the army of Erebor?"

"I don't know," said Bróin hopelessly, his eyes returning to the staff. It was nearer now, only inches away from him, and his hands were beginning to shake. Saruman moved it closer, but Nelly grabbed Bróin and yanked him backwards so that he was pressed against the wall again. He swallowed, and spoke again. "Really, I do not. My best guess would be a couple of thousand, five thousand, perhaps? I don't know."

"How many dwarves like in the mountain, would you guess?" said Saruman, and Bróin shook his head, looking desperately at Nelly.

"We don't _know,_ " she said, wincing as the staff moved further into the cell. "Really, _truly,_ we don't know. Maybe twenty thousand? Maybe more, maybe less, I don't know. I don't know how many hobbits there are in the Shire, how many Men live in Dale – I don't know."

"Very well," said Saruman. "Here is something you will know. Who are Thorin Oakenshield's most trusted lords and advisors?"

Bróin's eyes widened, and he glanced at Nelly. His fear was reflected on of her face, and she shook her head a fraction. Bróin looked back at Saruman. If he told, if he gave a single name, he was putting his family at risk. Swallowing, Bróin closed his eyes, shook his head, preparing for the pain to come.

And then Nelly screamed, a sound that wreaked through Bróin's soul and set his heart on fire. His eyes flew open and he saw Saruman's staff against her chest, saw her cringe against the wall as her fingers and toes curled up, and her eyes rolled up in her head.

"Stop!" he yelped, throwing himself on the staff and trying to move it, but it burnt like molten metal and he could not get a hold of it.

Desperate, he grabbed Nelly instead, trying to pull her away, but she screamed when he touched her, and Saruman kept his staff in place, twisting it viciously. Nelly's neck arched back, and her screams were choked by whimpers.

"Stop it, please, _please,_ stop, don't, stop it!" Bróin cried.

"Tell me," snarled Saruman through gritted teeth, twisting his staff once more. Nelly started to shake, and Bróin broke.

"The Company!" he yelled, "The Company he took on the quest; my father and uncles, and Balin and Dwalin, Nori, Dori, and Ori, and Óin and Glóin and Fíli and Kíli and Bilbo – and Dís, he trusts he family over everyone else, let her go, please, stop-"

"Who else?" pressed Saruman, and Nelly whimpered.

Bróin's head swam and he tried desperately to think of who else Thorin spoke to – but he did not know, not in a political sense. He only knew those Thorin was friends with, those he spoke of at home, or brought often to the Company Room. "I don't know, Lord Ragan, Lady Svana, Lord Joren and Lady Thora, uh, Dain, and – um, Lord Arnor, and Lord Jari, and uh Dastan, uh, maybe – I don't know, I don't know who else he trusts, who he listens to, but those are his friends, that's as best I know, please, please, that's the best I can guess, I mean it, I'm telling the truth, I swear, please stop hurting her!"

Saruman removed the staff and Nelly gasped, tumbling forwards, but before Bróin could catch her, the wizard had pushed her back up with the damned weapon. Frantic and furious, Bróin spared half a glance to Saruman, who was looking very pleased with himself, before grabbing Nelly's arm. She was sweating and pale, and shivering as though a bucket of ice water had been dropped over her head. Slowly, her eyes rolled up to meet his, and they were filled with tears.

"Are any of those people with Bilbo Baggins now?" asked Saruman.

"Some of them," replied Bróin miserably, looking away from Nelly, and from Saruman. He had never thought of himself as a traitor before, and knowing that he was doing his kin and kingdom harm was making him sick.

"Who?"

"Several of them, 's far as I know," Bróin said, hanging his head. His stomach churned at his treachery, but his hands were tied. He could not let the bastard hurt Nelly. Not again. "Bofur and Bifur, and Nori and Ori, too, and-"

"Don't," croaked Nelly, shaking her head even as a tear trailed down her cheek. "Bróin, don't-"

"Fíli and Kíli," Bróin whispered, feeling his own tears hot in his eyes. "And, Dís."

Saruman grinned, and Bróin wanted to be sick. "The king's nephews and sister."

"Yes."

Nelly groaned, and Saruman gave a cold laugh. "Perfect. Now, I wish to know about the Shire. What defences have they there?"

"Don't, Bróin-"

Bróin closed his mouth, but Saruman moved forward, and he cried out, "None! They have no formal army, no weapons, no training, they are not part of this, they've never hurt anyone!"

"And how many dwarflings are currently hiding there?"

Never had Bróin's blood run so cold. If he spoke, he would be giving up Orla and Ola and Bodin, he would be betraying his own little siblings to this murderer – but if he stayed silent, Nelly would be tortured, even killed. He could not lie – he knew what would happen if he was caught – but he had to do something. In his mind, he could see the sword coming down to sever Nelly's head, he could see Bodin and the twins ripped from their beds –

They were just little _kids_.

"None," he whispered, and his voice sounded as though a cheese grater had been shoved down his throat. "None, they'll've been taken to the Blue Mountains for safe keeping."

Saruman narrowed his eyes, staring at Bróin. "Who will have been?"

"My sisters," said Bróin, his voice breaking, "my little brother. They'll be in the Blue Mountains by now. But they were in the Shire. How did you know they were ever there?"

Saruman stared at Bróin as though he was an idiot, a mindless man to be pitied. "When nobles of 'great' kingdoms traverse across the world, they are watched. My people in Bree rode straight to Isengard whence you left it on the way to Rivendell, and they reported that in your haste, you seemed to have left several dwarflings behind. That you lacked the same number of hobbits that you left with was inconsequential – it was the absence of dwarves that surprised me. And excited me. For it even a fool would realise that they had been kept behind, kept behind to be 'safe' – but you know full well your Shire is not safe. It will bow, or it will burn. We shall soon see if your siblings were taken to the mountain. If you are lying, you will see them soon enough."

The wizard flung more questions at them, questions about the inner workings of the Shire, and of Erebor, and questions about the routes they thought Bilbo might take. They answered as dishonestly as they could, dancing around the truth and slipping in lies when there was less chance of getting caught, and much of what they said was easy enough to learn outside of the Mountain.

But Bróin's guilt grew worse and worse, and when Saruman removed his staff from the cells and tossed them a bread-roll, Bróin pressed the food into Nelly's hands and staggered to the toilet hole.

"Bróin are you- oh Mahal!"

He felt Nelly's cold hands pulling his hair back as he vomited, his disgust at himself growing stronger at the sign of weakness. He gagged, and Nelly made a gentle humming noise, rubbing his back.

"It's alright, Bróin, there you go, get it all out."

He could tell that she was holding her nose, and his gut twisted again. He threw up until his stomach was empty, and then coughed, and Nelly gently pulled him upright.

"Breathe," she murmured, putting a hand on his cheek. "There we go. Come on, let's sit down. We've got some thinking to do."

"I'm sorry," Bróin whispered hoarsely, "I'm so sorry, Nelly, I-"

"Did what you had to," she said gently, though her eyes were dull and hopeless as she led him down onto the floor. "You did what I did, the other day."

"It's awful," he said, a bitter taste in his mouth. "I – I always thought that if I got captured, I'd keep my silence until I died."

"And I think that if it was you that they had been hurting, you would have done," said Nelly, "I think they know that. Did you hear what that orc, Mauhúr, said to Saruman, when he was going to take you away? What he said in the Black Speech?"

Bróin paused, and tried to think. He and Nelly each knew a little of the vulgar tongue of Mordor – Nori thought it important to know what your enemy was saying – but there were so many dialects, and when Mauhúr had been speaking, Bróin had not been paying enough attention to notice his words. He shook his head.

"Did you understand it?" he said.

She nodded, meeting his eyes. "He said 'When he bleeds, she screams.' Saruman knew from then that it was the best way to make us talk."

"They're not in the Blue Mountains," Bróin said, tears finally spilling from his eyes, "Nelly, they're just _children,_ and Dís and Bilbo and – what have we done? What have we done?"

Nelly wrapped her arms around him, snuggling into his side. "What we've had to do. We're family, Bróin. Family. If anything happened to you…"

Bróin shuddered, but he was not thinking of his own fate. His mind was stuck on Nelly, on Nelly screaming, writhing against the wall and –

"Are you alright? He hurt you, he hurt you badly and-"

"No worse than he hurt you," she promised. "I don't feel anything, now. I'm alright."

Bróin glanced around, and snatched the bread roll from where Nelly had left it on the bed. He pressed it into her hands. "Eat that. I don't want it, and you need it." He gently pocked her cheek before she could protest. "There's supposed to be hills, not craters."

Nelly rolled her eyes and batted his hand away. "I'll give you a crater of your own to worry about in a minute, Bro. Honestly…"

But she began to eat the bread, and that was all that mattered.

"I'm a traitor," said Bróin dully, staring at the fading patch of light on the ground.

"No, you're an idiot," Nelly chided. "Here. You should eat some."

His stomach clenched, and Bróin shook his head, pushing away the crust Nelly offered. "I don't think that's a good idea, Nell."

"Are you sure?"

He nodded, and she stared into his eyes for a moment to make sure that he was serious, before finishing the food. Then, she clapped her hands down on her knees.

"So, we need to get out of here. Any ideas for a plan?"

Bróin shrugged. "Wait until we're skinny enough to slither out of that window?"

Nelly paused as if considering this. "I believe that would be a rather miserable way of doing things. Now, if you could figure out how to transform into a mouse, you could run through the bars and bring back the key."

"Why would I be the one to turn into a mouse?" frowned Bróin, though he could feel the twitch of a smile coming into play. "You're smaller."

"Yes, but I'm faster. You need the added edge of mouse speediness."

Bróin laughed, pushing her shoulder gently, and they began to talk. Their plans grew steadily crazier and wilder, with feats of magic and strength and wit, and slowly, Bróin began to feel a little better.

There was always a chance to restore honour, Nori said. Bróin hoped that it was true.

If they could escape, he could make it true. His guilt lingered, but he did not feel regret. Nor for saving Nelly. They would get out, they would make up for it. And yes, for now their plans were ludicrous. But every so often, they came across a note they could use, a single morsel of information that might help, and they stored them away for later use.

When sleep finally took Bróin that night, he dreamt of their plans in action, and he woke with a smile on his face, and the memory of taking down Isengard on the back of a flying, fire-breathing sheep.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! It may not seem like much plot progression was going on, but it's setting up for things to come. Please do let me know what you think, I really appreciate the feedback.**


	56. Chapter 56: The White Rider

**Happy Monday! I actually made it on time today, thanks to a changing of the schedule that I've implemented. With any luck, that should help keep Monday updates more regular. Thank you to my lovely reviewer for the last chapter! I really hope that you enjoy this chapter, as ever please forgive my typos.**

 **Chapter Fifty-Six: The White Wizard**

The trail drowned in a cold stream.

For hours, they had tracked Merry and Pippin's footsteps through Fangorn, and the hope that had swelled in Gimli on its borders was bleeding slowly out again. The ground was soft and springy, and even the hooves of the horses left little mark, and were it not for the skill of Aragorn they would be lost. As it were, it was only rarely that Gimli's own eyes picked up signs of his hobbits – a crushed weed here, a footprint caught in soft mud there.

But he could read Aragorn, and he saw the man's jaw grow tight. It was with a calm voice that Aragorn pointed at disturbances in the ground, and suggested that a hobbit had fallen there, but Gimli caught the sidelong glance the man sent his way when he admitted that only one set of footprints went on from that point.

"They are heavier, a little more defined. It looks like one carried the other – Merry bearing Pippin, if I'm not wrong. These prints are a little bigger than the others."

That was when the hope had begun to seep away. One of his hobbits was in a bad way, and the other could not walk alone forever. He remembered Mirkwood, and the way that Paladin had almost killed himself carrying Fíli to safety. He remembered feeling like his stomach had been ripped apart by wolves when they thought they were dead. If Merry and Pippin were in a similar state…

And then they reached the stream, and a final, solitary print in the soft mud of the bank. Leading into the water.

And Gimli knew that they were gone.

Merry and Pippin had done what Aragorn and Gimli had done in Mirkwood, and used the stream to hide all trace of their tracks. He did not know if they had travelled downstream or up, or how far they had walked before leaving the stream. He did not know when or if or how they got out, if they had trusted to the trees or to the forest floor. What he did know was that they were hobbits, frightened hobbits, and they did not want to be found.

Which meant that they were gone.

Gone, in a forest which Lord Celeborn had advised them against entering, a forest which was dark, and wild, and reminded him of the Old Forest in the Shire. Many a night, Merry had shared ghost stories and old wives' tales about the Old Forest around the campfire.

Stories about whispers chasing travellers through the woods, about trees that moved and spoke of their own accord. Trees who could think, and talk, and hate.

Here, there were whispers in the wind, and great moans, and Gimli felt very much like he was being watched. The trees were larger than any he had ever seen, and darker, stronger, with boughs that gnarled their way up towards the heavy ceiling of leaves. There was a tension in the air, a palpable pressure that pushed Gimli to run as far as he could. Ever were the hairs on the back of his neck raised, and his hand on his axe did nothing to ease his perception of danger.

But he could not – he would not – run.

Not while his cousins were still here.

Gimli sighed heavily and pinched his eyes shut, trying to think. They would probably be more likely to downstream than up – or would they be more likely to make a move for Rohan? They knew that the people there were allies of Erebor, at least in word. Often, they had travelled through those lands on the way to the Shire, and Merry might have led Pippin back.

"So?" said Boromir, his voice creaking under the weight of his fear and desperation. "What do we do now? How can we track them through water, where do we go?"

"We cannot," said Aragorn quietly. "They are gone."

"Gone?" cried Boromir, and he looked as though Aragorn had struck him across the face. "They cannot – they cannot be gone."

"Depends on your definition of the word," said Gimli gruffly. "If you mean 'gone' to mean dead, then no. We have no proof of that, and we must hold onto hope." _However slippery hope may be,_ he added silently. "But if you mean to say that they are hiding where even we cannot find them, I agree with Aragorn. All hobbits have the ability to vanish into the world around them, when that world is trees and hills and grasses, and these are _trained_ hobbits, who are afraid, and on the run."

Boromir looked from Aragorn to Gimli to Legolas, and then both up and downstream in a matter of moments. There was a franticness to his pale face, and he looked more dishevelled than Gimli had ever seen him. "But there must be something we can do? They are alone, they will have no supplies, no food – we cannot simply abandon them."

"No one said anything about abandoning them," said Aragorn firmly. "Calm yourself, Boromir."

Boromir looked away, his jaw clenching, but the same fears were plaguing Gimli.

"I do not think that starvation is as pressing as you fear," said Legolas. "It is not like my homeland – no evil chokes these roots or poisons these streams. The water is good to drink, clean and cool."

"It is not yet January, if I have not lost all ability to count the days," protested Gimli, unwilling to be comforted just yet

. "What is there they could forage in so dark a forest as this in the middle of winter?"

The elf gave a light shrug. "There may be trees that yet have fruit or nuts so late in the year, or roots and mushrooms that are good to eat. A hobbit would likely know how these things, do you not think?"

"I do not think," admitted Gimli glumly. "They'd likely know what they _could_ eat if they saw it, but that's if they knew where to look. They forage a little on long journeys, but they always have a supply of food with them, and rely more on hunted game than foraged vegetables. In both the Shire and Erebor, their foods are sourced mainly from markets. I do not know that they will be able to sustain themselves long without weapons, or a damned lot of luck."

"But they are hardy folk," said Aragorn. "They need not find enough to last all winter – just until they themselves are found. They are capable of that, Gimli."

Indignation pulled a scow onto Gimli's face. "I know what they are capable of, how wrong it is to underestimate hobbits. But I am afraid so dark a forest will yield little food at all, if it yields any. It feels an evil place."

"The stories are dark indeed," agreed Boromir, glaring into the gloom of the woods. "Tales of trees that strike men dead with mighty blows from their branches, and troll-like creatures who lurk in the shadows and tear folk limb from limb. They are told as old wives' tales, and I never had much stock in them, but Gondor tells no merry stories of this land. None who entered to see the truth were ever seen again."

"Then how were the tales told?" asked Legolas, looking to Aragorn. "Lord Celeborn warned against coming here. What do you know of this place?"

Aragorn raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin. "Little – I was going to ask you the same question. What would I know that a wood elf does not?"

"Aye, well, Lego-elf here hasn't been out of his neck of the woods before, has he?" grumbled Gimli, though mocking the elf did make him feel a little better. Using the name that Pippin had assigned to the elf as a toddler made him feel a little closer to his missing kin. "That said, I expect you feel right at home with the stuffiness and darkness and the evil lurking around the corner…"

"I am glad you speak so highly of my home," said Legolas lightly. "You speak truth in that I have rarely ventured far from Mirkwood, but I do not think that this is an evil place. It does not feel evil, and if indeed there is evil here, I deem it far away."

"If that is so, why does it feel as though an axe is held above our heads?" said Boromir, checking his horse and peering over his shoulder. "I feel as though I hold my breath, and the forest holds it with me."

Legolas urged his own horse on a little, and pressed his palm up against a nearby tree. He paused for a moment, and gazed up at the branches. "It is not evil. Only very, very old – so old that it makes me feel like a child. It is full of memory. And it is angry. Very angry."

"Angry?" said Boromir, looking stunned at the very idea of angry trees.

"It has no cause to be angry at me," protested Gimli. "I've done it no harm."

"But it has been harmed," said Legolas. Gimli could not see his face, but there was a sorrowful tone to the elf's voice. "I fear harm is still befalling it, though that may be many miles from here. There is great pain in this place."

Gimli sighed. They were getting off topic. "Well, I have no intention of adding to that pain. All I want to do is get my hobbits and leave."

"But how will we get the hobbits?" pressed Boromir. "How can we find them in this cursed place?"

A great moan ran above them, like the sound of an ancient tree pushed by a great breeze, and Gimli grabbed his axe. There was another noise, louder, angrier, and Legolas put his hand behind him.

"Peace, Boromir, Gimli," he said. "Lower your axe. They have feelings, my friend."

"I suggest we rest," said Aragorn, before either Boromir or Gimli could say any more. "Night is falling, the forest grows darker, and it has been many days since we got any decent rest. Let us camp here, and decide what to do come morning."

Gimli did not want to camp and rest, but without any direction there was little else he could do, so he made no protest and dismounted with the others. They built no fire, which did little to improve his mood, and instead sat by the stream and settled themselves in the roots of the great trees. The horses seemed rather relaxed when they were tethered, so he supposed that was something.

Legolas was the first to go down to the stream itself and wash his face, and then he drank, and refilled his water bottle. The others followed, and Gimli was relieved to find that the water was cool and tasted rather good. At least Merry and Pippin would be able to drink, and drink clean water. Fíli and Paladin had not had that luxury. After a dinner of lembas and dried berries, they set up a watch, and went about trying to sleep. Gimli could have sworn that he would never be able to close his eyes, but he found that he soon slipped into slumber, and he did not wake until the sun filtered through the leaves above to fall on his face.

With little talk, the four hunters prepared for the day, though not one of them knew where they were preparing to go. There was an unspoken understanding that, sooner or later, they would have to go to Edoras to return the horses, and Gimli's hope that they would find the hobbits before then was weaker than an elderly butterfly.

But as they prepared the horses, Legolas stood apart from the others, gazing intently into the trees. Gimli paused, and watched him, and as such he saw the very moment that Legolas' eyes grew hard.

"There is someone out there," the elf said softly. "An old man approaches, hooded and cloaked."

"What?" hissed Gimli, hurrying over to Legolas' side.

Sure enough, he saw a figure drawing near, sheltering now and again behind the trees. It was a stooped figure, clothed in grey rags, and leaning heavily on a stick that looked an awful lot like a wizard's staff. Suspicion rolled through Gimli's gut, suspicion that was confirmed when the grey rags fluttered aside, and he caught a flash of pure white beneath them.

"Saruman!" he growled, slowly taking hold of his axe. "Bend your bow Legolas, he will put a spell on!"

Hand on his sword, Boromir hastened to Gimli's side, and Aragorn flanked Legolas as the man drew nearer. The elf slowly put an arrow to his bow, but he hesitated, and Gimli glared at him.

"What are you waiting for?" he hissed, but Aragorn shook his head a little.

"We cannot shoot an old man with no cause," he murmured. "We do not know he is not a traveller."

Gimli and Boromir scoffed, but there was no more time for hidden words. The man began to walk directly towards them, with a purpose that could not be mistaken.

Aragorn stepped forward, and Gimli raised his axe, ready to strike.

"Halt!" called Aragorn, his voice betraying no fear or weakness. "Who goes there? Show yourself."

The old man paused, and stood a little straighter. His hood was deep, and hung low over his face, shielding it from view. Gimli gritted his teeth.

"Well met, friends. I wonder what brings you to these woods, so armed." The man's voice was low and deep, and rang with an authority that chilled Gimli's bones. There was something familiar about it, something that Gimli could not place.

"Our business is our own," said Boromir coldly. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am," said the man. "Though if we are to cut pretences, I will say this; I do not wonder – I know what it is that brings you here. You are tracking the footsteps of two young hobbits."

"Saruman," snarled Gimli, every cell of his body quivering with rage. "What did you do with them?"

"They passed this way, the day before yesterday." The man's voice was infuriatingly calm, and Gimli bared his teeth, ready to rip out the villain's throat. "They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

"You tell me where they are and what you have done to them, or I will strike you down where you stand!" Gimli's voice rose to a roar and he lurched forward. "Where are they?"

A great force stopped Gimli in his tracks, and though he had no thought to move, his axe fell harmlessly to the ground beside him. The old man stood up tall, towering even over Boromir, and his grey cloaks fell away. Blinding white robes shone beneath them, and his face was clear and bright, and Gimli's heart did a strange combination of a cartwheel and a backflip.

"Mithrandir!" cried Legolas, casting his bow to the ground and falling to his knees. "Mithrandir!"

The wizard laughed, a laugh that Gimli _knew,_ and spoke in a voice that was somehow less grand, the voice that Gimli had known he would never hear again. "Well met I say again, Legolas."

Fear and joy and wonder and shame and shock coursed through Gimli so strongly that he fell to his own knees, and he could not draw in air.

 _"Gandalf?"_ breathed Aragorn. "It cannot be…"

"Forgive me," said Legolas, bowing his head. "I mistook you for Saruman."

"I am Saruman," said Gandalf. "Or rather, Saruman as he should have been."

Boromir's hand came down on Gimli's shoulder and clutched it tightly, and Gimli could feel the man shaking.

"But you fell," Aragorn said, his voice scarce more than a whisper.

"Yes," said Gandalf, his face darkening. "Through fire, and water. From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought him – the Balrog of Morgoth – until at last I smote my enemy, and cast his ruin upon the mountainside. Darkness took me, for a time, but I felt life in me again, and I have learnt many things. I have been sent back to you now, at the turning of the tides."

"Gandalf," repeated Aragorn, a tremor in his voice and tears in his eyes.

"Yes, it is I," said Gandalf patiently. "Come, Gimli, rise. Feel no shame for how you welcomed me – ever have I counselled caution in these times, and I would have been more upset had you not fought to know the whereabouts of Merry and Pippin."

"Do you know where they are?" whispered Gimli, hardly daring to hope.

Gandalf smiled warmly, and nodded. "Yes, I know where they are. I have seen them, and they are well. Pippin is a little worn down, perhaps, but it is nothing that some food and rest will not heal, and now he has an opportunity for both. They are in the care of Treebeard, the ent."

Relief swept through Gimli in a wave so strong that he would have fallen to his knees once more, had he risen when Gandalf bade him to. He did not care a jot for what the stranger words of Gandalf might mean. Merry and Pippin were alive, and they were safe, and they were well. That was all that mattered.

"The ent?" asked Boromir, incredulity colouring his hoarse voice. "Such creatures exist? I thought them only children's tales of the Rohirrim."

Legolas looked as though Boromir had spat on his grandmother's grave. "Children's tales? No – every elf that has ever dwelt in Middle-earth has heard of the Onodrim, and of their long sorrow. If I were to meet an ent I would feel young indeed. But is Treebeard not only the rendering of Fangorn in the Common Tongue? Who is he?"

"That would take a great time to tell, and much more time than we have here," said Gandalf, his eyes twinkling. "I will say that he is the oldest of beings still walking the earth today, and that he is the guardian of this forest. Indeed, it is named for him. Come, let us sit. I have said we do not have a great deal of time, but we do have a little, and I wish to know all that has transpired since I left you. I do not doubt I know much of it already, but I would hear it from you."

A sudden though struck Gimli like a knife to the face, and he felt guilty that he had forgotten it, even for a moment. His relief for Merry and Pippin and joy at the sight of Gandalf had blown it from his mind, but perhaps there was hope here, too.

"Wait! Do you know anything of Nelly and Bróin?" he asked eagerly, but at once his hope dashed against Gandalf's frown, and shake of his head.

"You were separated?" the wizard asked, but then he shook his head again. "No, do not tell me. But tell me of your journey know, and leave nothing out."

It was Aragorn who started the tale, recounting their escape into Lothlórien, the welcome and respite they received, and Frodo's account of his vision. He told Gandalf of their journey down the river, of the friction of which way to go, and of Frodo putting his foot down. But when he reached Rauros, Boromir gave a heavy sigh and took over the tale, his eyes downcast and his cheeks red with shame.

"There were thoughts, dark thoughts, seeping into my mind at night, and I thought them my own, until hindsight suggested otherwise. It seemed great folly to destroy our hope, as I saw it, and the Ring called to me – I thought I was stronger. I thought I was fighting, that sense was all that steered me when I admitted that I thought we should use it. I thought that my anger was just, that Frodo did not trust me, and the fellowship thought me weak, and treacherous. I – I thought to clear my thoughts alone, and when Frodo said he wished to join me, I was surprised, but glad. I tried to change his mind, to steer him from the Emyn Muil, and we began to argue. He spoke of trusting me, but not all the men of Gondor, and I did not believe him. It was as though there was a great presence within me, bending my thought and emotions as a puppet-master works his toys."

Boromir's bitter voice broke off, and he covered his eyes with his hands. More strongly than ever, Gimli was convinced that his diagnosis of gold sickness was accurate, and he cursed the ring.

"So have others spoken who have felt the pull of the One," said Gandalf gravely. "Continue with your account, son of Denethor."

Boromir took a deep breath, and kept his eyes closed. "It brings me great shame to say it, but the argument grew into fight, and I – I attacked Frodo, but he broke my nose and got away. He vanished. I cursed him, and I cursed… I cursed all the halflings… and then I fell, and I realised what I had said. What I had _done._ And Frodo reappeared. I told him to leave – to go, but he lingered. After all I had done he spoke to me, as a friend. I did not deserve it. I knew that I could not go with him – I was a threat to his safety. And to the quest. I had to return to Minas Tirith. He – he did not want to tell the others why. I needed space, I needed to think, to process what I had done, so we walked our separate ways. I did not realise how much time had passed until I heard the yells of the orcs, the cries of Merry and Pippin…"

For a moment, Gandalf was silent. His eyes, bright and piercing as ice, fixed on Boromir. "And then what happened?"

"I tried to protect them, I fought beside them. I knew not where anyone else was, nor what had happened to the others. I blew on my horn, but no help came, for the others were fighting elsewhere. I – I was overcome. Arrows struck me, I know not how many, but they did not pierce the mail the lady gave me, though I still bear their bruises. I was wounded, and overcome, and I could not stop the uruk-hai from carrying the hobbits away. I was pinned to the ground, and left for dead."

"The Lady Galadriel told me you were in peril," said Gandalf quietly, "I am glad that you escaped it, in the end. It was a sore trial, Boromir, but you have passed as well as any."

Boromir's head rose so quickly that Gimli's neck burnt in sympathy. The man had such a look of incredulity on his face that Gimli nearly laughed.

"Yes, Boromir," added Gandalf, a wry smile coming onto his face as his eyes sparkled. "I do say escaped, and passed. You fell, indeed, but you did not fail. Not only did you reject the ring in the last, but you more than redeemed yourself in the service of Merry and Pippin. You were willing to lay down your life for them, and very nearly did so. I know of no greater redemption than that."

Gimli would have laughed at the look on Boromir's face, but they were nearing the end of the story, and his worry was growing stronger once more. So far, Gandalf had been rather unreadable, but Gimli was sure the wizard had been perturbed at the news of Nelly and Bróin's disappearance, and he wanted Gandalf's opinion as soon as maybe. He looked at Aragorn, who nodded once, and continued the tale.

"When we found Boromir, and heard what he had said, we knew that Merry and Pippin would be alone would only be if the hobbits had scattered in an attempt to protect the quest. It was a tactic they spoke openly of employing. We returned to the boats and found one gone, and that Frodo and Sam had taken their packs and fled. But there was no sign of Nelly or Bróin anywhere, and we did not know whether to seek them, follow Frodo, or pursue the orcs that took Merry and Pippin. In the end we supposed that Merry and Pippin were in the most desperate and definite need of our help, and that is how we set down this road. We left Nelly and Bróin a sign – a rune telling them to return to the Shire, and we set off on foot. Yesterday we met the Rohirrim, and learnt that things go ill in Rohan, and that the uruk-hai had been slaughtered. We were leant horses and found the pyre of the uruks, and the tracks of Merry and Pippin. Those we followed to where you find us."

Silence followed Aragorn's words, and Gimli kept his eyes on Gandalf. The wizard's face had grown darker and darker, and he now had the look of a stormy sea, clouded and wild and dangerous. His eyes, intent and brooding, were trained on the ground, and his fingers pressed up against this chin. For what felt like a lifetime he did not move, not even to blink, until Gimli could not stand it any longer.

"Gandalf?"

The wizard's eyes snapped up and fixed Gimli in their stare. There was worry in them, and sorrow, and Gimli's heart sank.

"I fear your tale may hold the answer to a riddle I faced, the day before yesterday," said Gandalf heavily. "I have been looking into the mind of Saruman, as well as I can, but he is a powerful wizard, and well-practised at veiling his thought. His feelings are easier to read – doubt and impatience, joy and cruel cunning. Two days ago, there was an overwhelming surge of satisfaction, though it was tainted with doubt, and frustration. It was a victory that I could not place. By then, I knew that his orcs were dead, and that their prisoners had escaped, and I also knew that Frodo had parted from the fellowship. I had little fear he had been caught so soon, and I was sure that if Saruman _had_ got his hands on the ring, we would know of it. I could not fathom what he celebrated, but then I did not realise that Nelly and Bróin, too, had been parted from you. It is possible that the uruk-hai split up when the hobbits did, and that half of their number managed to get their quarry home."

It did not take Gimli long to unravel the riddle of those words, and he felt the blood leave his face as he was engulfed in cold horror. "You think that they are in Isengard? Gandalf-"

"I do not know," said Gandalf gravely.

"Well can't you find out?" demanded Gimli, ignoring the looks of Aragorn and Legolas. "Use that mind connecting madness that the Lady Galadriel used to speak with Glorfindel?"

Gandalf looked sadly at Gimli. "Unfortunately, it does not work in such a way. There are limits to the-"

"Fine, fine!" Gimli waved Gandalf off. "I do not care about the ins and the outs of it – we must go, now."

"But we do not _know_ ," said Gandalf, and his voice was sombre, and troubled. "There is nothing to say that they are not on their way back to the Shire now – or indeed on the trail of Frodo, or on the way to Erebor, given who we speak of. We have no real proof they are in Isengard at all. Also, we cannot form a successful strategy for getting them out. Saruman believes he holds all the cards, negotiation will be fruitless, and dangerous. Furthermore, he is brewing a great war, and as such there is no way that we might enter Isengard through stealth or force without running the risk of enslaving ourselves. That would be a mighty blow indeed to the war."

Gimli felt as though the doors of Moria had come down upon him, and he lowered his head into his hands. "Gandalf, they are children."

"They are not children." Gandalf's voice was very gentle. "Nor are they adults, it is true, but they are no longer children, Gimli. If they were, neither you nor I would have let them get this far. No, I do not think a direct rescue can be risked, not yet. After all, there is still a chance that they were never caught."

"They are good fighters, my friend," said Legolas softly, putting a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "There is a reason we deemed them more capable of caring for themselves than Merry and Pippin. They might yet be safe."

"I suppose," muttered Gimli, because by saying it out loud, he could almost trick himself into believing that the pair of tricksters were alright. He took a deep breath and raised his head, pulling his composure back. "Though if they weren't caught, I'll bet they're beating Frodo to Mordor. Very well, Gandalf. If we are not going to search for Nelly and Bróin, what exactly are we going to be doing? It better be important."

Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "It is indeed important, my dear Gimli. Rohan is on the brink of open war, and it is poised to fall to the armies that Isengard will unleash upon it. There is, however, still time to turn this battle on its head, and there is still hope for Rohan. We are going to do what we may, and I do not think that will be little. We ride, Gimli, to war – to open war with Saruman."

A cold grin spread across Gimli's cheeks, and he stroked the hilt of his axe. "I suppose I could live with that."

Nodding, Gandalf stood, and put on his grey cloaks once more. He whistled once, a low, clear sound, and the hunters stood up before him. Gandalf turned to face them, and he smiled the same cold, determined smile that graced Gimli's cheeks.

"We ride to Edoras."

 **And they're off! This was quite a fun chapter to write, so I hope you enjoyed it. I'm excited to know any thoughts or theories you might have as to where things are going, and I will do my best to make sure that my next update is also on time.**

 **In the meantime, thank you for reading!**


	57. Chapter 57: The Shadows of the North

**Hello there! Sorry for the slight delay, I wasn't quite happy with this last night, so I've had another edit this morning and I'm happier now. Thank you so much for my lovely reviews of the last chapter, and please forgive any typos, as ever!**

 **Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Shadows of the North**

The night was darker than most. Heavy black clouds blanketed the moon and smothered the stars, and there was a deep fog rolling over the Long-Lake from the east. The town on the lake was lightless. There were no watchfires lit, and even the houses of the night-guards had no lights in their windows.

A single fox was running down the west bank.

The east bank was aflame.

Bonfires, vicious and bright, shot sparks high into the night, but what light they gave out was smothered by the tens of thousands of black-clad soldiers that crawled around them. It was an army of orcs and men, and though the fox did not dare draw close enough to know for certain, she guessed that they had been there for a while.

When day broke, it would shine light on the huts and tents that had been erected on the bank, and the bloodied bridge that led from the land to the city on the lake. Sunlight would fall against the boarded windows of Esgaroth's greatest houses, where the commanders of the orcs now dwelt. Those who had once dwelt in those houses had invaded the homes of poorer folk, who in turn had been forced to the streets. Some now squatted in homes abandoned by those who had sought refuge in the mountain before the armies had descended upon them. Some had tried to follow their footsteps, and flee to Erebor when they saw the armies that their Master had allied with.

Few made it so far as New Dale, and none had made it to the gates of the mountain.

But fox did not know details of the plight of the Men of the Lake, and the mountain her destination. A red ribbon was strung around her neck, and the stench of her burning homeland was still seared into her nose. Or perhaps that was just the scent of her own singed fur. Either way, it gave her purpose, and she ran so fast that her lungs sought to burst. She left the lake behind, making her way up towards New Dale.

That city was not so dark. Though it was past midnight, a few of the houses still bore lights in their windows, and the watchfires and street lamps were lit. But it was not the Men of Dale who slept in those houses, and wandered those streets. Instead, the city was infested with the commanders of Sauron, Men from the East with wicked hearts, who had signed deals for power in the blood of their people. They were men who knowingly fed their knights lies about the evil of Erebor, and spread rumours about the men of the West – rumours of darkness, and cannibalism, and cruelty.

They had forged farm boys into foot soldiers to bulk up their armies, pumping the young boys full of the belief that they were working for the greater good of their families and their people. They had fooled their cities into supporting a war against a twisted, sickening foe, against dwarves who feasted on the flesh of children, and they spread the word of the greatness of Sauron, so that their people would pay homage to him.

They were men who thirsted for power and thrived on bloodlust, and once they had taken their pick of the homes of Dale, they had burnt all others to the ground.

Now they slept in the beds of absent lords, with their wives and lovers beside them. On their fingers were jewels they had stolen from raided villages, and around the necks of their wives were delicate chains from murdered foes. While they laid siege to the kingdom of Erebor, they slept in luxury, with smug smiles on their faces.

The fox did not know this.

She knew only that the city was crawling with enemies, and that she would do best to avoid them. She skirted the edge of the city, peered into the land before the gates of the mountain. A great wall had been built from the war-wagons of the orcs, vehicles designed to form a barricade whence you had removed their wheels. Already, the soldiers had been building beyond it, and already there were watchfires along the line. How long it had been there, she did not know. But their line was nigh on six hundred yards away from the gates, beyond the reach of most archers, and it curved around to meet the mountainside. There was no way around, unless you scaled the sheer rock walls.

Keeping low to the ground, the fox kept to the edge of the campsite, and crawled to the far end, where the wall met the mountain. There were orc guards, filthy and stinking, nearby, but they did not see her. Silent as death, she crept forward, and dropped onto her belly, crawling through a small hole under the barricade. She very nearly got stuck, but nevertheless she made it through, and peered out at the land between the gates and the barricade.

It was barren, littered with the corpses of trees, and the scorched skeletons of gardens. The very dirt was stained with blood. There was nowhere to hide.

The fox shivered, and began to creep softly through no man's land. She was not seen, but she did pass the corpse of another, a male fox who bore an arrow in his head. A quick sniff confirmed that she did not know him, but sorrow still fell over her, and anger. That arrow had not been fired so that one might eat, nor had it been shot to negate a threat. It was death for the sake of death, and it was meaningless.

The fox sprang forwards and ran, faster than she had ever run before, until her legs blurred beneath her. She did not stop until she reached the gates of Erebor.

* * *

The silence of the night was broken by three loud bangs in quick succession, and Thorin closed his eyes.

He had not been sleeping. He did not sleep much at all anymore. He had not even bothered to remove his clothes. There was too much to fear, too much to think about. There were too many people for him to protect, so many people that he loved too far from reach.

Every living citizen of Dale was now residing in his mountain, alongside several hundred folk from Lake-Town. Altogether, there were around thirty thousand dwarves and fifteen thousand men in the mountain, and though there was plenty of space in the city, tensions were high. There were some among the dwarves, particularly the older, more conservative folk, who believed that the Men should not have been granted refuge until an attempt was made to hold Dale.

Thorin and Bard had debated that very possibility, but both had decided that given their cities' relatively small populations it would be too much of a risk. Dale was a trading city, not a fortress, and it would be difficult to defend. Any attempt to hold it would result in the loss of valuable soldiers and resources, and if by some miracle they did manage to hold the city, it would give them little tactical advantage.

Thorin knew that it had pained Bard to empty Dale. The man had forged a small kingdom out of ruins with his own hands, and he looked upon the city with the same love and pride that he gave to his children. But that love was also extended to his people, and the king of men had not hesitated to take Thorin's offer of pulling his people to safety.

A small battalion led by Prince Bain had remained in Dale until the last minute, fielding the last of the refugees from Esgaroth and what remaining supplies they could carry. They had lingered until the very last moment, and retreated to Erebor only the armies of Mordor were upon them. Then had the first battle been played, when two soldiers were cut down from behind by warg riders. The dwarven archers had rained arrows upon the orcs, and Bain's men had slain a hundred orcs between them ere they made it back into the mountain. They had lost only five men, and though the battle had ended in retreat, Thorin did not think it a loss.

The biggest blow to Bard had been the falling of Esgaroth. They had watched from Thorin's balcony as the city burnt in the moonlight, and the orc troops moved in. Thorin had seen a familiar pain in Bard's eyes, the pain of one losing a place that was once a home, and he had grieved himself.

That had been a month ago, and still they did not know if Lake-Town had fallen by force, or if its Master had simply handed her keys to the orcs. Neither would surprise Thorin. Both saddened him.

Both gave him reason to fear personally, as well as strategically. With Thranduil's people besieged by Dol Guldur, and Esgaroth in the hands of orcs, any who sought to return to the mountain would find it nigh on impossible.

To that day there had been no blow so severe as the fall of Lake-Town, nor had there been any true battles. Skirmishes had occurred between spies and scouts, and there had been several attempted battering of the gates, but the dwarves had poured arrows and molten metal down upon their foes, and the men had not tried that again.

Every so often, there would be a bout of arrows sent back to them, and they had lost a couple of guards from sneak attacks while there had still been trees below. Three weeks ago, the Easterlings had set great fires, and burnt down the trees and grasses and gardens that had been so lovingly tended by Thorin's nephews and hobbits, and Thorin's heart had burnt beside them.

Yet still, Thorin was certain that bringing the entire city of Dale into the Mountain was the right thing to do.

Here, they had all their strength, and they had walls that would endure. They simply had to wait for the right time to strike, wait for battles that they had a chance of winning. If they charged out now, it would be a combined army of twenty-five thousand dwarves and men, facing down two hundred thousand orcs and Easterlings, and Thorin would not send his people into a battle without such odds unless he had no other choice.

And for now, they did have a choice. Though the farms of the men, too, had been burnt, by combining the supplies of man and dwarf before the arrival of Mordor they had collated a decent stockpile. They had food enough to last through spring, given the planning of Bard and Thorin, the great grain stores that had been filled through years of abundant harvest, and the hoards of livestock that had been moved into the mountain.

Furthermore, Thorin had set Dori and Óin to tending the internal gardens of the hobbits, greenhouses that they had made warm and bright by the kingdom's great windows and mirrors. Many people of Dale helped with this, and Thorin transformed some old, unused halls into more space for gardens and greenhouses. They were working on expanding them, so that they might feed more people, and uprooting daisies to make room for carrots.

The thought of Sam's face when he returned and found that his even his internal gardens had been destroyed was enough to make sure that Thorin ordered the evicted flowers be placed safely in pots, wherever possible.

Yet there were still some dwarves who were uncomfortable with so many men in the mountain, and they protested on many grounds, pointing out the supposed crimes of the Bardings and arguing that they were receiving greater food and support than Thorin's own people. They muttered about the treachery of Esgaroth, and accused refugees from the Long Lake of being spies.

On the other side, there were some among the Menfolk who scorned and sneered at the dwarves, and scoffed loudly that if they ever escaped the siege, the dwarves would bleed them dry or enslave them for life to make them pay for the 'charity' they had received. Those of Lake-Town resented accusations of espionage, and trusted the dwarves less than the folk of Dale. Even some among Bard's folk seemed to think that they were surrounded by enemies, and not by folk who would fight and die beside them.

And of course, it was only ever the troublesome men who ran into the troublesome dwarves, and only the conflict-mongering dwarves who bumped into the most restless of the men.

They were minorities on both sides, but already they were causing friction, and there had been several late-night brawls that almost made Thorin wish they had left the alcohol in Dale, for the orcs.

The tension was in danger of escalating, and it was exhausting.

And Thorin was tired – so tired – and when the knock came on the door, he could not bring himself to get up. His limbs were leaden, and his head was aching, and his eyes felt like they had been seared by a blast from a furnace.

He had never felt exhaustion like it – never, at least, without it being an accompaniment to greater grief. The fatigue was akin to that which had struck him after the death of Frerin, and the disappearance of Kíli.

And the thought of that did not make him feel any better.

Thorin crossed his arms over his stomach, but the person at the door knocked again, faster. Thorin growled and sat up, rubbing his eyes. The knocking grew more intense, and he stood up, striding through his chambers to the door, pausing only to grab his sword.

"Who is it?" he snarled through the door. "I am not in the mood to-"

"It's Dwalin. Open up."

Thorin pulled the door open at once, his heart already cringing at whatever news he might hear. Dwalin stood before him, looking sombre and concerned, and Thorin's hand tightened around the door. "What is it? Have the armies made a move? Is there trouble in Bard's quarter?"

"No," said Dwalin bluntly. "There's a naked woman here to see you."

Thorin blinked, and then blinked again. Perhaps he was asleep indeed – or perhaps he was finally so weary that his mind was playing tricks on him. Of course, he could also be losing his hearing – it ran in the family and he was, after all, far older than Óin had been when he went deaf. "I beg your pardon?"

"There is a naked woman here to see you," Dwalin repeated, with the faintest twinkle of a smirk on his face, though there were also deep lines of concern carved into his brow. "She appears to be one of Beorn's folk – claims to have a message from Glóin."

In the time that it took his heart to skip a beat, Thorin was already out of the door. "From Glóin? What did she say? Where is she now?"

"Little, and in one of the holding cells by the front gate."

Together, Thorin and Dwalin strode from the royal wing, descending the staircase as quickly as they could. Thorin could not run – there were too many in this mountain looking to him for stability, and he could not chase after news like a child chasing a butterfly. But he could certainly walk with speed and purpose, and he did so, while Dwalin relayed all that he knew.

"She appeared like a wraith at the gates – I almost gave the order to fire. One moment there was nothing below, and then there was a woman – no bigger than a hobbit. She was pale as death, and for a moment I thought I was seeing a ghost. But she called up to us, and held her hands up in peace. Inni, that was the name she gave for herself. She said that she was kin of Beorn, that the form she took was a fox, and that was why we had not seen her approach. I asked her to prove it."

"And did she?"

"Aye," Dwalin said, sending a sidelong look at Thorin. "It is unnerving. But whether by some spell, or truly by the same nature as Beorn, she can change form. She claimed to carry a message from 'Dwarf Glóin,' and that she would deliver it only to the king of the mountain, or to the hands of Glóin's wife. You know I am loathe to let any stranger into the mountain, and I am not unconvinced that she is not a spy, but I could leave her outside the gates. She is very small, and looked very vulnerable down there. If indeed she is kin of Beorn, I would not keep her in harm's way."

"Indeed, if she is truly but a messenger of any lineage, I would not have her naked and afraid outside our gates," said Thorin pointedly. "Did you bring her inside?"

"Aye. I lowered a ladder, brought her up quick as could be. She wasn't all too happy about being locked in the holding room, but she relented when I swore I'd bring you straight to her."

Thorin nodded. "Very well. Let's not keep her waiting." Then, he glanced at Dwalin. "Have you sent word to Dana?"

"Not yet."

Silence fell between them, a silence raw with anticipation and fear. By the time they reached the guard rooms, Thorin's heart was going at twice its normal rate, and he took a deep breath. Only one door was guarded, and they stepped aside as the king arrived. The key was turned in the lock, and Thorin strode into the small room.

Like all holding cells it was bare, save for the table in the centre, and two chairs on each side of the table. It was designed as a space to interview strangers entering the city, and ensure that they meant no harm to its people.

The holding cells had been used more often in the last year than they had in the last decade.

Even as he first laid eyes on her, Thorin thought that the woman's resemblance to a fox was clear. Her red sleek red hair was the shade of a fox's pelt, and there was something vulpine about her pointed ears and twitching nose. Her eyes were brown and round and deep, and darted around the room as she scratched behind her ear. She was wearing a simple tunic and a dwarven cloak, though her legs and feet were bare. In her hands she clutched a small pouch, and as Thorin came in she narrowed her eyes slightly, cocking her head and sniffing at the air.

"You are the dwarf-king?" she asked. "The Oakenshield?"

Thorin inclined his head, ignoring the oddities of her manners. 'The Oakenshield' was something new, and he made a note to remember it. Frodo would find it most amusing. "Indeed, I am. I am told your name is Inni."

She nodded, quickly, and stepped slightly closer towards him. "You are a friend of Dwarf Glóin, yes?"

"Yes," said Thorin, stepping inside. Dwalin followed, and closed the door behind them. Inni's eyes twitched. "He is my kinsmen." Thorin gestured to the chairs. "Would you care to sit?"

Inni shook her head, eyeing the sword on Thorin's belt, and the fur around his collar. "I prefer to stand, if I can."

"Of course," said Thorin, bowing his head. Beside him, he could feel Dwalin's impatience, and Thorin too was aching to demand from her all she knew, but he had to go through the niceties, even if Inni did not know them. "As long as you are comfortable. Tell me, how do you know Glóin?"

"I was in the Misty Mountains," she said. "Times are dark, and our lands are under shadow. We are watching, watching the borders of our lands and the dark between the trees, and I was watching the hidden paths in the mountains. Goblins there are there, many. My people also are beset by orcs with wicked knifes and hungry flames – they pour out of the Dark Place in Mirkwood, and come often to try and raid us."

"Dol Guldur?" asked Thorin, and she shook her head slightly.

"I know not what name it has. It matters not to me."

"How did you meet Glóin?" pressed Dwalin, and Inni narrowed her eyes.

"This Dwarf is friends with Dwarf Glóin?" she asked, looking suspiciously at Dwalin.

"Aye," said Thorin. "This is Lord Dwalin. Their fathers were brothers."

Inni nodded slightly, tearing her eyes from Dwalin and looking back to the king. "I was watching in the mountains when I heard the call of Wolf Lani, and I went to her. She was wounded, and I was afraid for her, but she said that she could not retreat, or rest. That she had a task, and a Dwarf in her care. They were messengers, she said, and they were looking for kin of the king, and for the cub of Dwarf Glóin, but they also had news that must be sent back to the mountain. I went with her, to the road that the Men and Dwarves call the High Pass. There was a cave nearby, wherein there was a pony, and Dwarf Glóin. He, too, was injured."

"Injured?" asked Thorin sharply. "How? Where?"

Inni gave a light shrug, and tapped her arm. "There was blood here, and many bruises, but he spoke not to me of his wounds. I do not think he had enough trust to tell me, though he asked for ointments. I do not carry ointments. I do not have pockets. I gave him what food I had left in my cache, and I agreed to deliver the message, to you."

She held out her hand and opened it, revealing a small, simple coin purse, tied to a red ribbon, and Thorin recognised Glóin's sigil embroidered into the fabric. He took it, and untied the complex knot sealing the bag. A small scroll of paper fell out into his hands, and he scrambled to open it. His mouth felt very dry.

The words inside were written not in traditional Khuzdul runes, but instead in Gundabad Runes – a secret set of symbols taught only to the direct bloodline of Durin, and only after their coming of age. As such, the only living souls to know it were Thorin, Dís, Fíli, Dain, Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin. Kíli should know it too – they had passed his hundredth birthday by now – but Kíli was far from home, and the thought of him brought no comfort to Thorin.

He took a deep breath, and then read the message.

 _Thorin. The other messengers are dead. I found dead ravens with empty message canisters, and I found the bodies of five of our folk. My heart aches. Three were unrecognisable. Two were Austen and Auden. Of this I am certain, and I laid them to rest as well as I could. There was little I could do, but their spirits are free now. I believe they were ambushed – by the road there is a great trench which hides a goblin outpost. No doubt their job was to intercept messengers over the mountains, and they would have taken me, too, had the wolf not sensed them first. All those I found in the trench are now dead, but I was not wholly unscathed, and I do not doubt there are more scum out there. I press on, in hopes that I will find our kin ere harm befalls them, or at least be of some assistance to them. I hope this message reaches you. If it does, I think you can trust the messenger. Lani does. Give my love to my wife, and to Dori, Jari, Aria and Ari, give my love and sincerest condolences. Glóin._

Thorin closed his eyes.

"What?" Fear snapped Dwalin's voice. "What is it?"

Thorin wordlessly passed his friend the paper, pinching the bridge of his nose. Grief and fear were rising within him, but they were so familiar now. They were beginning to simply feel normal. Taking a deep breath, Thorin opened his eyes and rubbed his jaw, glancing at the messenger. Inni's eyes flickered between Dwalin and Thorin, and her fingers drummed silently against her arm.

She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, and then her face melted into a look of raw, open sorrow. "The news grieves you?"

Thorin bowed his head slightly. "Some of it. Much of it. Yes. Do you have any further news? Anything that you could tell us?"

Inni's nose twitched, and she chewed on the cracked, dry skin around her lips for a moment. "I do not know. I know not what you know already, and I know little beyond my own lands."

"Then speak to me of your own lands, if you will," said Thorin. Beside him, Dwalin bowed his head. "And what you saw in the mountains."

"My lands burn," said Inni in a hollow voice, her hand fluttering up to rest on her neck. Thorin noticed an ugly red burn between her fingers. "I passed through my home on my way here, and it was burning. They told me my mother and brother fled to Beorvin, but I do not know if Beorvin still stands. I had no time to check."

"Yet you came here?" asked Dwalin, his frown deepening. "Why?"

"Because we are only a little people. Weathering the war is the best we can hope for, but they say that the Dwarf King is a great king, and that his armies are strong. They say that the dwarves might fight, and win the war. We might fight, and live, or fight, and die. We are too small to make any grand difference." Inni pressed her lips shut and glanced away, her nose twitching quickly as she sniffed.

For a moment, Thorin did not know what to say. There was a lump in his throat, and his mind was a storm of a thousand fears. He stared at the woman, at the sorrow in her eyes and the absence of tears, at the burns on her body and the pride in her stance.

Finally, Thorin murmured, "How old are you, Inni?"

"Twenty."

Thorin closed his eyes again. So young. She was so young. Of course, Men thought their children full grown at twenty, but a twenty-year-old dwarfling would be thought tall if he reached his father's hip, and a twenty-year-old hobbit would still fall asleep held easily in their Uncle Thorin's arms. Then he sighed, and opened them again. "You are welcome to stay here as long as you will," he said. "There are Men in this mountain, too, and we can find you a bed. And – if you wish – we can find you a job. A task, to aid in the war."

Inni's mouth popped open, and for a second her eyes sparkled, but then she took a step backwards, and shook her head a little. "Thank you, Dwarf King, but be there Men here or not, there are no Men here of mine. Any task here that you give me you might give another – I came here because there was no one else to take the message. But my people are fighting, and I must fight with them."

"Very well," said Thorin. He was unsurprised to see such loyalty, but all three knew that returning to the lands of the Beornings was running toward death. "Rest until you have gathered your strength, and leave when you see fit. But I warn you – leaving this mountain is now no easier than entering it."

Inni nodded thoughtfully, worrying her lip again. Then she turned and fixed her eyes on Thorin. "But I might ask for news of my own, to take?"

Thorin could not help but smile at the strange wording, at the refreshingly raw manners of the young skin-changer. She was less refined than Beorn, and it was rather endearing. "Of course. What would you know?"

"How long have they been here?" she asked at once. "The orcs, and the Men who smell of death?"

Thorin's smile faded, and he sighed heavily. "A little over a month. I am surprised that news has not travelled."

"It has, perhaps, and simply passed me by," she said sadly. "I was looking to the West, not the East. What happened to the Long Lake?"

"We do not know," admitted Thorin, his mind drifting out towards Esgaroth once again.

Inni sighed sadly. "I suppose we have not much news for each other, Dwarf King."

"Perhaps not," Thorin said, and then he smiled as well as he could. "Please, sleep as a guest tonight. If you need food, drink, merely ask. When you deem the time right, you may leave."

Inni nodded, and Thorin opened the door, calling over one of the guards.

"This is Darben," he said, introducing Dwalin's brother-in-law. "He, too, is a friend of Glóin's, and he will be at your service during your stay. Darben, this is Inni, a messenger of Beorn. Take her to a guest house, see that she is fed and clothed as she wishes, and remain nearby until the morn."

Darben bowed, and offered her his arm. Inni cocked her head, and then grabbed his arm, shaking it a little before letting go. Darben looked stumped, but Dwalin just grinned and mouthed, 'Go with it!', and Elza's brother shrugged, and led Inni away.

Sighing, Thorin turned to another guard. "Fetch Lord Jari, and his sister and brother, and fetch Lord Dori, and Lady Dana. Tell them to come to the Company Room at once."

The guard bowed low and hurried away, and Thorin and Dwalin began to walk without words, back towards the Royal Wing. Thorin yearned to let his friends' sleep, to wait until morning before telling the twins' family of their deaths, but he owed the young, brave dwarves more than that.

"No," muttered Dwalin, bluntly.

Thorin frowned, glancing at his friend. Dwalin's brow was furrowed, and his arms were crossed over his chest. "What?"

"We can't bring all of Beorn's Folk in here too," insisted Dwalin, and Thorin felt more confused than ever. The thought had not passed his mind at all.

"I was not thinking too," he said honestly. Dwalin grunted, and looked away, his eyes betraying his emotions to his oldest friend. Realisation hitting him, Thorin smiled sadly. "That statement was more to yourself than it was to me, I deem."

Dwalin sighed. "Aye. I hate being trapped in here, seeing that scum outside our gates every day, and knowing I cannot fight them, not yet! I just sit here, like a hen in a coop. And then you hear about Beorn's folk, our friends and allies, and there is nothing we can do. Nothing – we cannot help them at all. What can we do?"

Thorin rubbed his jaw. "Keep the peace within the mountain. Stop fools like Ioán challenging drunken Lake-Men. Make sure that our swords are sharp and armies ready, and make sure that our children are safe."

Dwalin's face softened slightly. "Aye. That is what it's all about, is it not? Protect our children – and any other snotty nosed brats we can get our hands on."

Thorin smiled a little, but his mind drifted to Inni, and the Beornings. They could not get their hands on those children. Even if they wanted to offer Beorn's folk refuge, they had no way of getting to them. It was as his father had said to him, a week after Azanulbizar, on a night so cold Thorin's tears froze to his cheeks.

 _"It's one of the hardest things you learn as a king, Thorin. Try as you might, you cannot save them all."_

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Things are not going overly well in Erebor, it seems.**

 **A note on the populations: I've been using what information I can to guess the respective populations of Dale and Erebor given that only twenty years have passed, unlike the sixty it was in the book. Also, Dale's population is a little smaller given that Esgaroth was not destroyed, so fewer people followed Bard there initially, while Erebor's population grew quickly thanks to the success in the Battle and the rule of Thorin.**

 **As such, I used the size of the armies that fought in the canonical battle of Dale – 30,000 dwarves and 20,000 men by some sources – and used those figures to represent the entire kingdom as opposed to simply the army. I hope that makes sense, if you have any queries or criticisms either review or PM me, and I'll try to clear it up.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, please let me know what you think, and I will see you next week.**


	58. Chapter 58: The Plight of the Beornings

**Hello all! Apologies for the delay in uploading this, I've been very busy, in partly Tolkien related manners. If any of you have a chance to visit the Maker of Middle-Earth Exhibition in the Bodleian Library in Oxford you definitely should, it's absolutely phenomenal, and I was lucky enough to see it early, as I did a little interview on Elvish and Dwarvish with the BBC, which was FANATASTIC and surreal and just plain awesome.**

 **As ever, please forgive my typos!**

 **This chapter is dedicated to my lovely, constant reader and reviewer Syreen, whose reviews have helped me through many a bout of writer's block!**

 **Chapter Fifty Eight: The Plight of the Beornings**

The smell of smoke was making her sick. It has surrounded them for hours now, lingering thick and heavy in the air, and it was twisting Dís' stomach in uncomfortable ways. It was almost worse that they had not seen any fire – all through the day and deep into the night, the wolves had led them on winding paths that stuck behind trees, or behind rocky hills and crags in open land. They had steered away from the smoke, their noses keeping their masters from harm.

But not from the reek of burning.

Dís both yearned and dreaded to find out what was burning. Every once in a while, she caught what smelt like burning flesh, and each time she smelt it she covered her mouth and tried to keep from gagging. That was getting more difficult, and the constant motion of riding was not helping, though it was smoother to ride a wolf than a pony.

To make matters worse, the baby seemed to be bouncing on her bladder, and though her heart was bolstered with every sign that her child was alive, Dís was desperate not to delay the company. They had not yet seen any orcs, but she had no doubt they were close, and she could not risk the lives of her family.

More than anything, Dís wanted to bawl. She had experienced such swings of emotion in each of her other pregnancies, especially with Fíli. She distinctly recalled bursting into hysterical tears when a carrot had slipped off of her fork and back into her bowl. Yet now, she had more right than ever before to cry, and more reasons than ever before to prohibit herself from doing so.

When she was home, she would cry. When she could lock herself in her room, where she could not alarm Bilbo or scare her sons, then she would cry.

But despite her resolve, tears welled in her eyes, and she faked a yawn to give herself a reason to wipe her eyes. Vinca appeared beside her, quick and quiet as a mist on a midwinter morning. Without a word, she handed the princess a clean handkerchief. Where she had got it from, Dís could not fathom, but the girl was ever prepared for anything.

"Thank you," Dís murmured, patting her eyes and blowing her nose.

"Do you need to stop?" signed Vinca, studying Dís intently.

Dís shook her head, but then she paused. Her bladder was fit to burst, and stopping for even a minute might help her stomach to settle. She nodded, and pulled Sitka to a halt. Those behind her stopped, and Vinca pulled her pony to, whistling once like a blackbird. The rest of the group halted, and Dís raised her hand above her head so that they could all see her sign, and worry as little as possible.

"I must relieve myself. I will be but a moment."

Fíli nodded, but his face was drawn, and lined with care. He looked so much like Thorin in his exile that it hurt her. "Take a guard," he signed back, and Dís nodded at Vinca.

Together they dismounted, and walked a few paces into the woods. Dís took a slow, deep breath, and though the smoke stuck to the back of her throat, she found that just being still did indeed help to ease her stomach. She took a few seconds to breathe, and then relieved her bladder. Silently, she cursed her body and her weakness, and loathed the vulnerability she was lending the company, but when she had cleaned herself and stood up, Vinca took her hand and squeezed it with a smile.

"Do not think that you are a burden to us," she said softly. "Even should we have to carry you ourselves, you will be no greater burden than my siblings and I were when we were children. You could never be more of a nuisance than that little girl who did not want her cousin to hear her doing her business."

Tears sparkled in Dís' eyes as she smiled, putting a hand on Vinca's face. "Oh, sweet-pea, you were never a burden."

"And neither are you," insisted Vinca, her voice no louder than a whispering wind.

After a stolen moment of peace, they returned to the others and remounted, and they began to move once more. Though at times they would slip into single file, the wolves were currently leading them two by two, and before her Dís could see her sons, and Ehren, and Bragi. As their leader, Fíli ever rode at the front of the group, and Ehren rode beside him with a head that looked far too heavy for his shoulders. Bragi and Kíli rode just behind.

Dís liked to be able to see them. She knew that their position was due to strategy, but with the world around her burning she liked being able to keep her eyes on her sons. And on Bragi and Ehren, for that matter. She was just as worried for them as she was for Fíli and Kíli – while Bragi seemed to be coping well, given the circumstances, he was still unusually quiet, and his eyes were dull, and Ehren was closest to unravelling of them all. It had surprised her, how much he was struggling to survive the grief of losing Soren, and then Austen and Auden, but then Ehren always had worn his heart on his sleeve.

With that thought in mind, Dís glanced at Vinca, who rode by her side with eyes that roamed the woods. Vinca, too, had been silent for a long while upon hearing of the fate of Austen and Auden, and Dís had ached for her. In another life, they might have been her brothers in law.

As she watched the young hobbit, Dís noticed Vinca's ears twitch, and her hand fly to her belt. Before Dís could so much as draw breath to ask what was wrong, Vinca's eyes had flashed to the front, and Fíli had stopped dead in his tracks.

And a great bear was standing before them.

At least eight feet tall, it towered over Fíli with eyes so intense that they seemed to burn, but even as hands flew to weapons, the bear brought its paw down onto its snout in the motion that the wolves used to mean silence. Tail wagging gently, Sokka bore Fíli to the bear, and licked the creature's chin.

Fíli leant forward and murmured something that Dís could not hear, and the bear nodded, once. Then it beckoned with its paw, and Fíli nodded, raising his fist into the air.

"Grimbeorn," he signed. "Keep quiet, keep low."

Her heart hammering in her chest, Dís nodded blindly with the others, and dug in her heels to urge Sitka forward. The wolf did not need much prompting, and gave a sigh that sounded much like relief. He seemed very at ease with Grimbeorn's presence, and that eased Dís' fear a little.

Falling back onto all fours, the bear led them through the woods, veering away so that they were travelling north-east. They left the cover of the trees as the sun stained the horizon red, preparing to bring light to another day. Dís' breath caught in her throat as they headed out into open land, where only hills and crags and cairns might shield them from unfriendly eyes, but after a short while, Grimbeorn stopped behind a large, rocky outcrop.

Sharp eyes piercing his surroundings, Grimbeorn let out a low, rumbling growl. For almost a minute, silence hung in the air, and then he growled once more. At once, three loud knocks replied, and Grimbeorn hooked his paw into a crack in the rock.

Astonishment flooded through Dís from head to toe as the bear pulled at an enormous boulder, one the same size as Grimbeorn himself, that had blended perfectly into the stone of the outcrop. He pulled until there was a passage large enough even for his bulk to pass through, and then he sat back on his haunches and raised his paws in the air.

A very young man emerged from the tunnel, his eyes narrow as they passed over Dís' party. He could not be older than fourteen years old, but there was a great axe in his hand, and he surveyed them with a look of authority. He was young enough to be called a boy, but there was an adult edge to his eyes, one that Dís had seen before. It was the look of a boy who had become a man far too soon.

When Grimbeorn nodded at him, the man stepped back, and gestured to Fíli to enter the tunnel.

For a moment, Fíli hesitated, but then he nodded, and let his wolf carry him inside. Single file, they followed the young man and entered the darkness of the tunnel, and as it enveloped her, Dís found that she was able to breathe a little clearer. There was less of a stench of smoke in here.

From the hitched breathing of Vinca behind her, Dís surmised that not everyone was so happy to be inside, and she reminded herself that hobbits could not see so well in the dark. Here, Dís could make out the shape of Ehren before her, and the outline of Vinca behind, but she doubted that her hobbits could see anything.

As soon as they were all inside, there came from behind the great rumble of moving rock, and thud of a closing stone door, and Dís felt the hobbits stiffen. The young man who had been at the door stood before Fíli.

"Stop," he said, in a voice that was both quiet and firm. "You wait here."

Breathing slowly to try and calm her nerves, Dís rested her palm on her stomach, and felt the baby moving, unperturbed by the peril of their mother. She smiled slightly. That was a nice thought – that her baby lived in a blissful ignorance, that for now, they did not know grief or fear.

From the back of the group she heard a great, shuddering gasp, and she heard Nori hiss out a string of swearwords. Then Grimbeorn spoke, in a voice lower and stronger than Dís remembered from the early spring, when they had passed through Beorn's Halls on the way to the Shire.

"Apologies for the dark, and for the quiet. But no longer is there any safety to be found in these lands, outside of these walls. Come, we shall get you inside. There you can rest a while, though I warn you, we have little in the way of provisions."

"We have our own food," said Fíli. "Though our water skins could do with filling, before we go much further. But I cannot thank you enough for a place to rest, my friend."

"Water we have," said Grimbeorn, "and rest we may grant you, at least for a while. It will take the orcs a while yet to track down this place, but I have no doubt that they will find it, ere the year is over."

Dís heard the sounds of bolts moving, and the creak of a heavy door swinging open. Warm, orange light pooled around their feet, and Grimbeorn led them into a vast, open cavern.

It was as deep and wide as a hall of Erebor, though the ceiling was not nearly so high, and hung only a foot or so above Grimbeorn's head. And the cavern was almost completely full, with hundreds of men and women and children crammed inside among animals of all kinds. There were some mini camps within the cave, groups huddled around a central torch, or sitting shoulder to shoulder in tight circles. In places there were sheets and blankets held up like tents or curtains, giving a false sense of privacy, and Dís knew at once what this place was.

They were in the refugee camp of the Beornings.

She glanced over at Grimbeorn, who was speaking quietly to the young guard on the door, and as Dís and her company dismounted, Beorn's son closed the door, and locked it behind them.

Then, Dís got her first proper sight of the young skin-changer, and her heart ached at what she saw. While he was easily seven-foot-tall, and built with almost the muscle mass as a dwarf, Grimbeorn cheeks were hollow, and his dark ringed eyes were sombre and dull. There were scars stretching across his face, and some wounds that were yet healed, and Dís saw burns and lacerations on his hand and forearms. There was a haunted look to him, and it chilled her. He had donned a simple, brown robe, much like a dressing gown, and as he raised his hand to stroke Sitka, his sleeve rolled back, and Dís saw a deep bite wound on his elbow, angry and red.

With a heavy sigh, Grimbeorn opened his mouth, but before he could speak a woman flew over in a whirlwind of dark, curly hair. Her shoulders were drawn back, and her teeth were bared, and in one hand she held a long, jagged knife.

Dís leapt backwards, bumping into Sitka, and her kin closed around her even as she wrapped her arms over her stomach. They drew their weapons, and the wolves began to snarl, and the people nearby began to stir, growling deep in their throats and reaching for knives of their own.

Grimbeorn sprang between the woman and the dwarves, holding out his hands, but the woman spoke before he could.

"What is this, Grimbeorn?" she snarled. "Are we inviting strangers and spies through our doors now?"

"Peace, peace!" he cried, looking from the wild woman to the dwarves. "Thana, these are no strangers. My friends, lower your weapons."

"We will when she does," said Bofur evenly, but as Thana growled, Fíli slowly sheathed his swords, and showed her the palms of his hands.

With a dignity and decorum that mad Dís' heart swell with pride, her son looked over his shoulders at his companions, and spoke calmly, in a voice that rang with authority. "Lay down your arms," Fíli said, and the company obeyed – albeit reluctantly in the case of Nori, Bofur, and Ehren.

Grimbeorn sent Thana a meaningful glare, and she tucked her own knife away, folding her arms over her chest. Her chin jutted proudly into the air, and with a start Dís realised exactly who she was was. In her alarm, Dís had not registered the name Thana, but she had heard it many times before. This woman was Beorn's daughter, by all but birth. She had been but four years old when Beorn met her mother, and not quite five when they wed. Dís had only met her once, while passing through Beorn's halls on their first trip back to the Shire. Then, Thana had been nine, and teaching a four-year-old Grimbeorn how to play hopscotch. She had been a sweet child.

They had missed her since, each time they passed through Beorn's home, but ever he spoke to them of her, almost as proud a father as Bilbo was.

But while Dís now remembered Thana, the memory was clearly unreciprocated.

"Who are they then, if they are not spies?" she said, narrowing her eyes further. "They look like dwarves to me, though they smell almost like goblins."

Dís would have been more offended by that comment if she had been able to bathe at least once since Rivendell, but as it was she doubted the company smelled good, even if their own noses were dulled to it.

"Aye, well, at least we don't smell like an uncleaned stable," muttered Nori under his breath, and Dís glared at him.

"That is enough, Nori," said Fíli sternly. "I am Fíli – son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór – Crown Prince of Erebor and Heir Apparent to King Thorin Oakenshield, if you wish to know my full name. This is my brother, Kíli, our mother, Princess Dís, and father, Lord Bilbo Baggins. These are Lords Glóin, Bofur, and Nori of Erebor. This is Bragi, son of Ragan, and Ehren, son of Joren, and Miss Pervinca Took, one of the hobbits of Erebor and daughter of the Lord and Lady Took. These wolves are of the litter of Beorn, and have been our companions for two decades. As for our ponies, they were born and bred in the mountains."

Thana glanced at Grimbeorn, who nodded, and her expression thawed a little. Her eyes rested on Kíli and Luno, and when she spoke again, there was something akin to awe in her voice. "You are Kíli Wolf-Friend?"

His face cracking into a friendly smile, Kíli nodded, and scratching Luno's ears. "I go by Baggins, but yes. I believe that is the name Beorn gave me. Where is he?"

At once, Thana stiffened, and Grimbeorn bowed his head. Luno whined, and the other wolves took up the sound – a low, mournful howl that chilled Dís to the core. She had only heard that once before – before the gates of Moria, when the wolves had discovered that Soren was dead. Now, the sound was quieter, but more pained, and Dís held her breath.

Grimbeorn raised his head, his eyes fixing on Kíli with a strength that astounded Dís. "He is dead. Last week Beorvin fell, and my father fell with it. He refused to stop searching for those trapped in the fire, and the smoke overcame him."

"Our mother fell beside him," said Thana her voice wavering a little, "And many of our kith and kin. What you see before you is the last of Beorvin."

Bilbo was the first to regain his voice, and Dís could hear the tears that choked his throat. "I am very sorry to hear that. Very – very sorry indeed."

Grimbeorn offered a weak smile. "My father held you very dear, dearer than any dwarves or men he has ever met. The least I can do to honour that friendship is aid you now. You are trying to return to the mountain?"

Thana put her hand on Grimbeorn's arm. "Perhaps we should let our guests sit and rest before we talk details. They look as weary as we are, and this woman is pregnant. She more than any of us needs a seat, and somewhere to put her feet."

"Thank you," said Dís gratefully. "I do not wish to be an inconvenience, but a place to sit for a while would be wonderful. And please, call me Dís."

Grimbeorn nodded, holding out his arm. "Of course, this way."

For a moment, Dís wondered where Grimbeorn thought he might fit a party of ten, plus seven wolves and four ponies in a cavern already fit to burst, but he led them around the edge of the cavern to a small tunnel, and brought them through to another, small cave.

It was scarcely the size of Bilbo's dining room, but there were only a couple of people inside.

One was a woman with a bandage wound tightly around her eyes, and the dirty brown hair on the right side of her head had been shorn away. She was nursing an infant at her breast, even as another child rested in her lap, playing absently with what hair she had left. Dís marked the older child as Beron, Grimbeorn's son, who would be coming up to two years old, now.

With a start, Dís realised that she was staring at Emblyn, Grimbeorn's wife. It had been hard to make the connection without a glimpse of the woman's eager brown eyes, and it chilled Dís to wonder what damage there was beneath the bandage.

She turned her own eyes to the other two people in the room, and she knew that they were strangers to her. One was a man with a ragged beard, who spoke in a low grumble to the dog that rested in his lap, and the other was another child, a boy of seven or eight years old, with onyx eyes that fixed the newcomers with a wary stare.

"Grim?" called Emblyn, her nose twitching. "You've brought guests?"

Grimbeorn strode across the room and put his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. At once, little Beron held his chubby hands up to his papa, and Grimbeorn picked him up, settling the boy on his hip and leaving his hand on his wife's shoulder. "My friends, you know Emblyn, my wife. Emblyn, the Bagginses are here."

Emblyn smiled, and to Dís' surprise it seemed that there was real joy on the woman's face. "They are? Welcome! It is good to see – meet – you again."

"She lost her sight in the fires," explained Grimbeorn, his own eyes burning with concern. When he looked at the bandage, he shivered, and Emblyn tilted her head to the side to press a kiss to his fingers.

"It was my own fault," she said dryly, even as she smiled. "I picked the wrong time to go into labour. Be glad you're not pregnant, my friends, now is not the time for it."

Grimbeorn winced, looking at Dís in alarm as the man with the dog gave a snort, and the dwarves and hobbits shuffled uncomfortably around, but there was a small smile tugging at Dís' lips. After such quiet, mournful days of riding, it was nice to hear someone make light of pain and grief.

Thana cleared her throat. "Sister, Dís is with child."

Emblyn's jaw fell slack, and Dís laughed, running her hand over her swollen stomach.

"I am," she said, "though I quite agree. We really ought to have planned this better."

At once, Emblyn's smile returned, and she shifted the new-born in her arms. "This is Bryn," she said, "Our untimely battle-born."

"Beron's baby sister," said Grimbeorn softly, nuzzling his son's nose. "And this is Jago, Thana's husband, and Aeron, their son."

Introductions were murmured as the group milled inside and sat down, forming a tight, slightly misshapen circle within the smaller cavern. To make sure they all fit inside, the wolves curled up together with the dog in the centre, and little Aeron clambered into Thana's lap. It was still a squeeze, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, but it was not unpleasant.

The back of the cave was behind her, so she could lean back, and she rested her feet on Sitka's flank, and with one shoulder pressed against Bilbo's, and the other Fíli's, Dís could not be uncomfortable.

After some soft words of prompting from his mother, Aeron ran and fetched a large flagon of wine, and some wooden cups. Vinca pulled out some of their provisions, and Grimbeorn added some nuts and berries to the pile, and before they spoke truly, they ate. As they did, Dís' stomach finally calmed down, and weariness washed over her.

At last, Grimbeorn put down his wine, and put his hands on his knees. "So – we heard that you were making your way over the mountains. I am glad that I found you. I would not have you travel on un-warned."

"Oh, they are not un-warned," said Glóin, but the darkness in his voice was bitter grief, and lacked anger, and Grimbeorn nodded.

"Yes, I was told that you were on your way west. You met one of Emblyn's cousins, I believe? Inni?"

Glóin nodded. "Nice lass, wears little in the way of clothing?"

Emblyn laughed. "Yes, yes, that would be Inni. She is taking your message to your mountain."

"But I fear there is more to warn you of," said Grimbeorn, and his wife's smile faded. "More that has happened since you left the mountain, Master Glóin, and if you hoped to get back before the siege began, you are too late. The mountain gates are surrounded, and Dale burns. The Master of Lake-Town sold her soul to the orcs, and her town is overrun. Meanwhile, Dol Guldur wages war upon us, and upon Mirkwood. You would be better off returning to the Shire. There, the peril is less."

Cold fear swept through Dís as the room fell silent, and she stared at the wall as she felt eyes fall upon her. The eyes of her sons, her husband, her kin. She knew what they were thinking, and what they feared. She feared it too. But there was nothing that could be done.

"We may be better off," she said softly, "but our people would not be. Having the princes safe in the mountain strengthens the kingdom, and Nori is Thorin's Chief spymaster. He is needed. Moreover, if we go back, we shall place targets on the backs of the innocent, and the undefended. That is not a risk I am willing to take."

"Are you sure?" said Grimbeorn, his eyes boring into her. They were a shade of amber that she had never seen in anyone else, and there was a sincerity and honesty to them that bred trust. "It is not only your life that you hold. There is no dishonour in protecting your babe – in protecting innocent and undefended."

"There is not," said Bilbo, and his voice was coarse and heavy. For a moment, Dís feared that they were about to fight again, that Bilbo would try to send her away, sunder her from her sons, but he did no such thing. "But we have made our choice, Grimbeorn. I would not have it this way, but it is Dís' decision, and she says she must continue. Were it not for the child, none of us would hesitate – we move for the wellbeing of our people. Not for… for ourselves."

As she smiled sadly, Dís felt the baby give a particularly strong kick, and she chose to believe that they were cheering on their father.

Grimbeorn nodded, and bowed his head. "Then if we can help, we will. Yet I doubt there is much, if anything, that we can do."

"We're too small," said Aeron sadly, chewing on his nails. "No one cares about us because we are too few and too small. We don't matter."

"Now, that is not true," said Bilbo firmly, cutting over every other protest that rang through the room. "That is certainly not true. For one thing, your Uncle Grimbeorn is the tallest man I know – I would certainly not call him small – and you, my lad, you're as tall as I am, and I am seventy-three! More importantly, it does not matter how many you are, or how tall or short you might be. What matters is how good your hearts are, and how hard you fight. What matters is how you stick to what is right and look after those around you. The wizard Gandalf is the wisest person I have ever met, and do you know what he says? He says that it is not the great and powerful that keep the darkness at bay, but instead the everyday deeds of ordinary folk. Little acts of kindness, and love. As long as your heart is true, Aeron, you will _never_ be unimportant. Do you understand me?"

With eyes as round as moons and a mouth that hung ajar, Aeron nodded, and Dís felt tears spring to her own eyes. She reached for Bilbo's hand and squeezed it, and his fingers wove through hers.

"Now," her wonderful hobbit continued, almost sternly, "Your people are not forgotten by everyone else. Just a few months ago, we had a meeting with Lord Elrond of Rivendell, a meeting about the bad things that are going on, and if you think that the Beornings were not mentioned, you are very much mistaken. Gandalf told of the bravery of your grandfather, and how he helped to track a nasty creature that has been helping the orcs for years. And he spoke of another hero – one who was just a tiny little baby, who scared away that very monster by turning into a bear cub and sending him screaming for the hills."

A smile pulling at her hollow cheeks, Thana looked down at her son and tapped his chest. Aeron looked up at her with wonder.

"Me?" he asked, his stunned gaze flickering to Bilbo. "Me?"

"Yes, you. Unless Beorn has any other eight-year-old grandsons running around?"

"No," said Aeron sombrely, "No, it's just me and Beron and Bryn, but they can't run yet, and they're not eight."

Bilbo nodded seriously. "Just as I thought."

"If we're not forgotten, why doesn't anybody help us?" Aeron asked. "Why has nobody come?"

"Because everybody else needs help, too," said Bilbo, the stern edge to his voice immediately melting. "The orcs are not just attacking you, and no matter how deeply people want to help, they cannot. If you had a broken arm, and your father asked you to help him carry some firewood, you would not be able to do it, however much you wanted to. My own nephew is off on a dangerous mission, and I want to help him, but I can't, because that would make things worse, so I have to help my sons, and my wife. I have to help those people I can reach, and hope that the ones I can't can hold on until I have a chance to get to them. The other people of the world are under attack too, little one."

Aeron nodded slowly, thoughtfully, and Emblyn frowned a little.

"A mission? Frodo is on a mission?" she asked. "Is that where the rest of you are? I cannot see to tell, but I was sure that there were more of you going West this spring."

"Some are with Frodo," Fíli said. "But some are keeping are littlest ones safe, and hidden. We did not want to bring them into any more danger than we could avoid, and we were lucky enough to find a safe place to keep them. Tell me, how many of you are there here? Two hundred?"

"Three," said Grimbeorn. "And another fifty or so out on patrol, and twenty on watches. We do not know where the rest of our people are. Some are dead, and some have fled. Why do you ask?"

There was a frown growing on Fíli's face, a frown of concentration that furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. "How many of them are warriors?"

"He asked you a question," said Jago, a warning edge to his voice, but Grimbeorn waved his hand absently.

"Peace, Jago," he said. "A hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty at a push. All our folk know how to fight, but most are still children."

Fíli nodded slowly, staring at the wolves with glazed eyes. "I thought so."

"What are you thinking?" Kíli prompted, poking his brother in the ribs. "Fíli?"

Fíli ignored his brother, looking instead at Grimbeorn. "The attacks – they are coming from Dol Guldur?" When the skin-changer nodded, Fíli asked, "And from the Misty Mountains?"

"There has been little, as of yet," said Grimbeorn. "Though I would not rule it out."

Nodding, Fíli dug in his pocket and pulled out an old, battered map, pouring over it and ignoring Kíli's inquisitive looks. Leaning over, he asked Grimbeorn to point to where they were on the map.

"And you think this place will hold for a few weeks, at least?"

Grimbeorn glanced at Jago and Thana, who were both looking dubious, and nodded slowly. "I would hope so, but I cannot be sure. If it is found, it will not survive sustained attack."

"No," murmured Fíli, "but it wouldn't need to…" He raised his eyes, and to Dís' astonishment, she saw a smile spreading across her son's face. She had not seen him smile in weeks, but now even his eyes sparkled, and he looked hopeful. Weak, perhaps, but hopeful. "I think I might have an idea…"

"Of how to reach the mountain?" said Emblyn. "How can we help?"

"No," said Fíli, shaking his head, "no, of how to help you. I think there may be a way to evacuate your people, to get them to safety."

"How?" Dís asked, in unconscious unison with Bilbo, Kíli, Nori, and all four grown skin-changers.

"Ûhaskhajam-okilondin," said Fíli, and at once Kíli's eyes lit up.

"Oh," he breathed, looking from Fíli to the map, and then back to his brother. "Oh!"

"Uh, boys, care to share with those of us who aren't close enough to read your damn thoughts?" Nori drawled.

"Two decades ago, when we were captured by orcs in Mirkwood, Glorfindel of Rivendell gave Aragorn a plan, a way to save himself, Gimli and Pippin – a way to save the children. It involved finding a hidden entrance to Mirkwood, one that is marked on no map. There are four clear pathways, but they all loop back on themselves – the fifth pathway is hidden, but comes to a fork that leads straight to Thranduil's kingdom. If we could get everyone to that point, we could travel through Mirkwood and seek refuge with the Elvenking. Thranduil may be cold, but his people are not, and if you offer your services as warriors, I am sure he would offer your people refugee."

"Alright," said Grimbeorn slowly, "but how do we find this hidden path? And how do we get three hundred people – unseen – from here to there?"

"Gimli showed me," said Fíli, pointing out a tree near the northern edge of the woods that had been coloured in with charcoal, "the next time that we went to the Shire. He was afraid, in case something happened again, so he backtracked, and wrote down where it was. It is around here."

"But you're not answering how to sneak three hundred enormous bear people up to the forest," said Nori pointedly. "It's a lovely plan, by it ain't ever going to work. I'm the _king_ of sneaking, I'd know."

"If you're the king, then that makes Bilbo the emperor," said Kíli at once, but he looked at Fíli doubtfully. " _Did_ you have any ideas, about that?"

Fíli nodded, but slower this time. Of this, he was less sure, whatever it was. After a moment, he said, "You would need a distraction. It would be dangerous, but I think I have an idea that might work. Send a force here, south of the Mountains of Mirkwood, make as though you are going to march on Dol Guldur."

Jago spat out his wine all over the wolves, prompting a disgruntled chorus of growls. "March on Dol Guldur?"

"Aye," said Fíli. "But don't enter the fortress. Instead, burn the forest down."

For a moment, there was utter silence. Then –

"He's lost his mind," said Thana bluntly. "I'm sorry, Grimbeorn, your friend is a moron."

"Now, that's a little harsh," grumbled Glóin, sending the skin-changer a look that was worryingly close to a glare.

"No, you do not know what you are saying," protested Grimbeorn, worry carved deep into his face. "This forest, these trees, these lands – they are our home. The trees are to us as your halls are to you. When Smaug came upon your mountain, was it the dragon or the dwarves who burnt your halls to the ground?"

"It was Smaug," said Fíli, "but it was our people who abandoned those halls in order to save their children. Help cannot come to you – there are none who have the means. Your choice is either to defend your land – a land that frankly is too large to hold with the numbers that you have – to stay here and pray that they do not find you, or to evacuate. Trees can be regrown. Homes can be rebuilt. If the world shakes and the mountains fall, new halls can always be delved. But lost lives are impossible to replace."

"Y'know," Nori said, stroking his chin. "Crazy as it sounds, Fíli might have a point here. It'd be a good enough distraction, especially if some of you can head north beforehand. Trickle out, in small numbers. That way it's less obvious you're all heading the same way. Besides, if you start a forest fire, you send all the animals flying. No one would think twice about a large group of animals running away."

"Not all our people can change," said Grimbeorn quickly. "And they are not all able to run."

"And are you even certain that the wood elves will help us?" protested Jago. "Because I am not. I do not trust Thranduil."

"Yes, well, that makes all of us," said Bilbo wearily. "But I do not think that he would turn away women and children, especially if you are offering your service in return. He is selfish and uncaring, but I do not think that he is that cruel."

The the Beornings shared uncomfortable looks, and Grimbeorn hung his head.

"I don't know," he said. "I… I do not know."

"Do not mistake me," said Fíli earnestly, a sad smile slipping onto his face, "I know that you are in a terrible position, and I cannot begin to fathom your grief, and the weight that is upon your shoulders. I do not mean to preach as though I know better than you how to help your own people. I do not, and I know that I do not. It was only an idea. I simply want to help, if I can."

Grimbeorn's face mirrored Fíli's. "Thank you, my friend. But I do not think it is true to say you know less than I. I did not expect to be chief at nineteen. I did not expect to watch the towns my father built burn to the ground. I spent too much time running around in the woods, playing with my babies. I do not know how to be a leader, and I do not know what to do."

"But your father named _you_ chief," said Jago, staring intently at Grimbeorn. "Not me, though I best you in combat, nor Thana, though she is older, nor even one of the elders, though they have more wisdom in their tails than you do in your whole being. In a time of great peril, when seventy orcs finally bested our chieftain, it was _you_ he named as chief. Beorn was wiser than all of our elders, and better in combat even than I, until the last few winters caught him. He would not pick us an ill leader, not even to spare the feelings of his son. He trusted your instincts and your abilities. He trusted that you would know when to listen, and who to listen to. He knew that you would do whatever you could to protect our people. And as I trusted your father, I trust you."

Her heart aching, Dís heard Kíli sniff, and saw him reach for Bilbo, their hands entwining. Little Beron stood up in Grimbeorn's lap, and wiped the tears away from his young father's eyes.

"Very well," said Grimbeorn, his voice trembling slightly as he took his son's hand. "I shall try to make sure that you do not regret that trust, brother."

Emblyn reached out, her fingers grazing over Grimbeorn's face, and she slowly tucked his hair behind his ear. "He will not regret it," she said. "He speaks truly. You know, it is after the hottest fires that the largest pine trees grow."

Grimbeorn's eyes widened. "You think we should burn down the forest?"

She paused. Even with her eyes hidden, thoughtfulness was written over her face. "I think that we should get the children as far from this place as we can, and I think that the survival of our people is more important than that of our homes. I think that seeking solace in Mirkwood is a good idea, and I think that we must try, at least. As Fíli said, we can fight with the elves. We will not be forced to concede the war, we will not be fleeing in cowardice to surrender – we will be able to strike out from a place of greater strength."

"No one is opposing the idea for seeking refuge in Mirkwood," argued Thana. "It is to the burning that we protest."

But Emblyn shook her head. "Yet what other choice is there? What other distraction could we mount that would work, short of truly marching on Dol Guldur or letting all our warriors be slaughtered, in the wild hope that a few might carry on? I do not want to see the woodland burn, but I do not see any other choice. Of course, you could argue that I can't 'see' anything."

Grimbeorn blanched, and Dís heard Ehren smother his snickers.

"That's not funny, Emblyn," said Grimbeorn, but as she grinned, a look of weary amusement was pulled onto his face.

"It's a little funny," she said. "I'm just trying to lighten the mood, it's awfully dark."

"That's enough," groaned Grimbeorn, and Dís smiled a little. It was refreshing, Emblyn's dark humour. She was glad for it.

"What if we burn the sick trees?" asked Aeron, a look of deep thought on his face.

Thana frowned. "What do you mean, darling?"

"The trees that are all sick, the ones that are deep in the bad wood. Where all the spiders are. If you burned _those_ trees, you could let the nice ones grow back. You could make the forest better again," said Aeron, and Dís glanced at the map.

If they did set southern Mirkwood ablaze, if they set fires close to Dol Guldur…

"Now you, lad, have the mind of a good strategist," said Nori, leaning forward. "So to summarise – we light the woods around Dol Guldur, close enough to threaten them – close enough that they will have to do something. And while they're fighting fires, we take the bulk of the people north, as fast as our feet will allow. It'll take some planning, but I reckon we're onto something here."

Thana nodded slowly. "It would be good to see the darkness of Mirkwood up in flames. I only wish it would be feasible to burn the fortress itself. Watch their homes burn, as they watched ours." There was a hungry light in Thana's eyes, and Jago nodded slowly.

To and fro, the group began passing around ideas – routes and accelerants and locations and distractions, and the circle seemed to grow tighter as their voices rose in pace, excitement infecting each of them as plans began to form. Plans that may enable the Beornings to deal a blow to their enemies without putting taking a greater blow to themselves.

Long into the morning they talked, and as they did, the days of travel and grief caught up with the company, one by one. The hobbits were the first to fall – quite literally so in Vinca's case. Her eyes, that had so long been flickering in an attempt to stay awake, finally gave in, and she slumped against Kíli's side. With a soft smile, Kíli shifted a little to position her comfortably in his lap, and tucked her coat around her. A few minutes later, Bilbo dozed off, until he gave a little snore and woke himself up. He went as red as a spring rose, apologising profusely as they laughed.

"Perhaps it is time to let you rest," said Grimbeorn pointedly. "Jago is on patrol soon, in any case, and I too am in need of sleep."

"We shall take the children for a little wander within the cavern," said Thana, helping Emblyn to her feet. "Rest well."

The women and Jago left with the three children, and Grimbeorn curled up in the corner and laid his head on his arms. Dís laid down slowly, and as she did Sitka slunk over, so that she could rest her head on his flank.

Hope, a feeling that she had almost forgotten, buzzed through her veins, and Dís smiled a little to herself. Now they had a plan, a timeline, and she felt better for it. From the coming evening, the Beornings would begin to creep north in small groups, and they would camp in Mirkwood, a few miles past the hidden pathway to wait for their kin. On the sixth day, Emblyn, Dís, Bilbo and Vinca would accompany the last small group to flee – the last with infants – and on the seventh, her boys would help to set the fires, and protect the rest of the Beornings in their flight.

It was a gamble, and there were still many details to fix, but Dís could feel hope again, and she nurtured it.

Of course, Dís had no way of knowing that the seventh day would mark the hour that the uruk-hai of Isengard reached the borders of Mirkwood. On that first night, there was no sign that even an eagle could spy of the army that would rain down upon Wilderland by the week's end.

Warmed by hope and by blissful ignorance, she wrapped her arms wrapped around Bilbo, and for the first time since the Council of Elrond, Dís slept well.

 **Phew! That was a long chapter, I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Now, chronologically, we're pretty much on an even playing field, so it'll be back to some fellowship shenanigans next week. I'll do my best to make the update on Monday, sorry that it didn't happen today! Thank you for reading, and please do leave a review if you can. I would love it!**


	59. Chapter 59: The Way of the Wolf

**Hey all! Sorry to be a day late again, but I was very busy last night and will be for the next two weeks. Nevertheless, I thank you for the lovely response to the last chapter, and hope that you will enjoy this one. Please do forgive any typos, as ever.**

 **Chapter Fifty-Nine: The Way of the Wolf**

His breath came hot and fast, and his lungs felt like there were great dwarves sitting upon them, squeezing until they were almost empty.

He carried on.

He no longer felt his legs. They flew beneath him – one, two, three, one, two, three – flew as fast as he could dare them to fly. He could not stop, or halt, or pause. He had grabbed a couple of mouthfuls of water here and there, when he chanced to find a stream, but there was no time to eat. No time at all. He had to run, and find his master.

He had to find Merry.

The news of the eagle was spinning in his mind – the land of the Beornings was burning, and Beorn's strength was failing. His own kin, wolves from his parents' pack, were falling and dying, wolves older and younger than he, hunted like prey and then left to rot. His packs never hunted for pleasure, even if they took joy in the hunt. They ate every last morsel of their prey – it was the only respectful way of doing things. But these orcs, they did not need the food. They did not need to eat. They killed because they enjoyed killing, and they were killing everything in their path – wolves and their cubs, deer and their fawns, men and their children.

His fellow wolves had insisted on staying with their pack. The dwarves needed to get to Erebor – Denahi knew that. They needed to get to safety, and they needed the wolves' help to do so. He knew that too. But Denahi had called to the eagle that brought the news.

 _"Hobbits?"_ he had asked. " _Have you seen my hobbits_?"

The eagle had huffed in reply. " _Hobbits? No. Orcs here and orcs there – from the Gap to the Gundabad. Why care for hobbits?"_

Then, Denahi had bared his teeth and advanced, and demanded that the damned bird take to the skies, that he find out if Merry was alright. It was not impossible – Hafoc had watched for them before, on other trips back to the homeland of the hobbits. Like many of the eagles in the surrounding lands, he would often carry out errands or watches in exchange for fresh meat, or carrion, and though he was grumbling and irreverent, he was also reliable, and – begrudgingly – a friend.

He knew what Merry looked like. He knew that Merry was Denahi's master, that Denahi loved the hobbit as though they were born of the same litter. And with no shortage of complaint, Hafoc had taken off, and days later he returned with news.

News that he had seen a pack of uruk-hai below him, travelling towards Fangorn forest, and Isengard, travelling with two hobbits among them.

Travelling with Merry.

Denahi had not waited to the other wolves to react. He had sprung off into the trees the moment that he heard the call, sprinting south as fast as he could, until he ran far enough that his legs collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled to the ground. Then, he had begun to pace himself. And he had run.

It had been six days, nearly a week, and he had barely stopped to sleep. Hunting was out of the question, and he had eaten naught but a little carrion he had found on the way. He was afraid, very afraid, that Merry would already be within Orthanc. If he was, there was little Denahi could do. He was only one wolf, he could not infiltrate the lair of a wizard.

But half an hour ago, something had changed. He had heard chatter, the chittering of angry squirrels complaining about two small, pale orcs that had climbed their tree and chased them from their home. Excited, Denahi had bounded over to ask more, but these were squirrels of Fangorn, not of Wilderland, and they sped away through the trees with frightened squeaks.

Nevertheless, Denahi was relieved. He was going in the right direction, he had to be – squirrels were morons who assumed that anything on two legs was an orc. It was why they threw nuts at so many wondering travellers. Denahi hated squirrels, but he had never been so pleased to hear them. Two little white orcs, up in trees – that had to be his hobbits.

If there were just the two of them, that meant that they had got away from the orcs. Or maybe not, he thought, his legs flailing like a new-born fawn's as his blood ran cold. Perhaps they were the other hobbits – Frodo or Sam or Nelly – perhaps Merry was still captive.

Or even dead.

With a breathless whimper, Denahi ran faster, his feet stumbling beneath him as his weary legs pushed onwards. He wouldn't be able to sustain this pace very much longer, not without feeding, but he had to.

And then he caught a scent, faint and far away, and he whined in relief and ran faster. Faster, faster, faster, until he was smashing into hedges and tripping on the undergrowth. The forest fled before him, its birds and beetles and small mammals terrified by the sight of the frantic wolf with burning eyes and tongue lolling from his mouth, but Denahi ran faster.

Nearly there, nearly there now – the scent was growing stronger.

He tripped and crashed to the ground, skidding across the undergrowth and smashing into a nearby tree. With a whimper, he got back up onto his feet and shook his head. His legs trembled beneath him, and they felt almost like they were melting. Denahi sighed, and stepped forward. One, two, three.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something very strange, and he paused. It was a tree, but it was moving. Moving against the wind, moving as though it was alive. He paused and shook his head, certain that he must have been tricked by the light, but then it turned. A tree, a living tree as great as a troll, it turned, and then it fixed him with wide, green eyes.

With a howl of fear, Denahi bound into the woods, and again, he ran.

* * *

For the first time in days, Merry felt truly safe. He sat on the back of a little stream, dabbling his feet in the water, while birds sang above him, and the sun fell warm upon his back. He was warm and comfortable, and there were no ropes around his wrists or orcs at his back.

And most importantly, Pippin was at his side, safe and sound. They were sitting so close together that Pippin was almost in his lap, and he was dozing again, his head on Merry's shoulder.

There was more colour, now, in Pippin's cheeks, and when Merry had woken this morning, he had seen his cousin's eyes focused and bright. Now, Pippin was asleep again, and Merry was glad for it. Gandalf may have said that Pippin was not seriously injured, but he did say that food and rest would help him heal, so Merry had made sure that Pippin drank his ent draught, nibbled on some lembas, and then sat quietly on the bank with him. It had not taken long for Pippin to doze off, and as he slept, Merry's own fears eased.

Not knowing what the orcs had done with Pippin had been the very worst part of their journey, and he had never felt more horrific than when he thought that Pippin was dead. Now, he had Treebeard's assurances that they were safe, and they had Gandalf's assurances that Treebeard could be trusted.

Gandalf – Merry still could not believe that Gandalf was alive. His heart lifted at the very thought of the wizard, and is wonder was beyond any he had felt before. He hoped that someone would tell Frodo.

Merry sighed, staring down at his feet. He wondered where Frodo was – he had to be out of the Emyn Muil by now. Merry and Pippin had been dragged in the other direction – they had little chance of catching up with him now. A secret part of Merry was relieved. He had not wanted to go to Mordor. He had never wanted to go to Mordor – but he had wanted to help his family, and his friends. What little relief he felt was dwarfed by guilt and fear.

Regardless of whether or not he wanted to, Merry would have walked into Mordor for Frodo. He knew it, deep in his bones, and he owned it – he would not have turned back if he had not been taken, he would not have left Frodo's side if there was any other way to protect him. He hated the idea of Frodo and Sam alone, he hated it, but then again, he was sure that they were not alone. Nelly and Bróin would have caught up, they would have got away from the orcs.

He hoped, at least, that they had. He did not know. With a sigh, Merry ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to be sure that the others had gone with Frodo, but he was not.

More than ever, Merry wished that he had a mind like Gandalf's – that he could reach out with his thought and see where his friends were, or let his mother know that he was alright.

A small bird came down from the trees and perched on the rock by Merry's hand. He stayed very still, watching as the as it hopped towards him. It was a tiny little thing, and he thought that he ought to know its name. If he had grown up in the Shire, he probably would know it, or at least know what type of bird it was most likely to be. A sparrow, perhaps. It hopped closer, staring up at him with bright eyes, and he slowly turned his hand over. The bird fluttered back, and then hopped forward, and perched on his palm.

Merry smiled, and the bird pecked at his skin as if expecting him to be holding seeds. Slowly, Merry unwound his arm from Pippin and reached into his pocket, breaking off the tiniest amount of lembas and spreading the crumbs over his palm. The bird ate greedily, puffing itself up a little, and Merry's grin grew. Then, with a happy song, the bird took to the air, its little claws pinching at Merry's skin for a half second before it rose. It circled above his head for a moment, and then shot away into the woods.

Merry wondered where he would shoot to next. He gazed down at Pippin, wondering which would be the right way to go. Was there even a right way? Should they go home? If so, which way? Erebor was closer, but Legolas had said that the mountain would be surrounded soon. They might not even be able to get there, and he had no desire to get captured again. If they did make it inside the mountain, they would be safer, but there would be shame, too. Why had they returned, without everyone else? Because they had been kidnapped, and saved by chance, and then scurried away home like the frightened rats Ioán said that they were.

They could make for the Shire, but they were trapped by the Misty Mountains. The Gap of Rohan was too close to Isengard, far too close, and they could not cross over the mountains alone. Not unless they made it all the way north to the High Pass, and that road was known for teeming with goblins. Yet the payoff – if they got home, they might be of some use. They could help protect the Shire, and look after the dwarflings, and they could reassure their parents that they were not dead. No, not dead. They had simply abandoned their siblings and cousins and left them to tramp across the most dangerous reaches of Middle-Earth.

Pippin shifted in his sleep, and gave a little moan. He was frowning, and his breathing grew fast and deep. Merry put his arm back around him, humming softly under his breath until the nightmare had been chased away, and Pippin's breathing returned to normal.

It was no exaggeration to say that they had been through something awful. Their parents would not be ashamed of them returning home, and Thorin would not be ashamed of them returning to the mountain. Merry knew that. But Thorin and his parents still thought of him as a child, too young to make his own decision and forge his own way. It may be forgivable to return home after such an ordeal, but Merry was not sure that he could manage it. To go now, to let the others struggle on without even trying to help – he could not stand it.

Perhaps they could go to Rohan. There would be work there that could be done, he was sure, and – more importantly – the Rohirrim were supposed to be the allies of the Mountain. They might be able to get a little food and supplies, maybe even to loan some ponies. Or, they could go to Gondor. Boromir had said that the frontline was there, that there was fighting to be done. Merry sighed again, and kicked at the water. He was afraid for Boromir, deathly afraid. In his heart, he did not believe that the orcs would have left him alive – not creatures as foul and evil as Uglúk and Grishnákh. His logic told him Boromir was dead, and the fear in his heart did little to dissuade it.

Beside him, Pippin sighed happily, shuffling around until he slipped. Merry caught him before he could fall, rolling his eyes as he settled Pippin's head onto his own lap.

Whatever it was they were supposed to do, wherever it was they were supposed to go, that would come in time. For now, they would sit here, by the Entwash, and they would stay here until Pippin had recovered. Then, and only then, would they decide what to do.

There was a rustling in the leaves before him, and Merry looked up. A smile spread across his face as the little bird returned, cheeping up a storm, and hopping to the rock by Merry.

"And what are you doing, then?" murmured Merry with a smile, holding out his fingers. The bird hopped onto them with a shrill whistle, and then hopped up onto Merry's head. Merry laughed softly, and the bird took off, shooting up into the air as straight as an arrow. For a while, he watched it fly, watched it flicker through the green leaves into the brilliant blue of the half-hidden sky, but then he heard something else rustling, something bigger, and he looked down.

Emerging from the bushes was a great paw, and then a snout, and Merry's heart leapt. He sprang to his feet with a cry, unwittingly knocking Pippin into the stream, and dove forward.

The wolf sprang at him, knocking him off his feet as Pippin spluttered awake with wide eyes, and Merry flung his arms around the wolf's neck, even as his face was bombarded by slobbery, wolfen, kisses.

"Denahi!" he cried, scratching behind the wolf's ears and trying to escape the frantic licking. "Hello – hello, boy! I missed you, I missed you so much! Good boy, good boy..."

Drenched from head to toe and shivering, Pippin stared at the scene with awestruck eyes. "Is that…?"

"It's Denahi." Merry beamed, managing to sit up and press his forehead against the wolf's, even as his eyes stung with tears. "Good boy…"

"How did he find us?" frowned Pippin, even as reached up to stroke Denahi's dirty coat.

"I don't know," Merry admitted, running his hands over his wolf's coat as Denahi curled around him. The wolf's rear end was wiggling in the air like a little puppy's, and his three legs seemed to be off the floor more than they were on it. Merry had never seen him so excited – and he had never been more happy to see him. "Where are the others?"

Denahi whined, tossing his head to the side. That meant 'back', or 'away.'

"Away? You left them behind?"

Denahi nodded, and Merry glanced at Pippin.

"Are they alright?" he asked slowly, and Denahi nodded. He let out a soft howl and licked Merry's nose, just once.

Pippin smiled. 'He was looking for you, Merry.'

Denahi nodded once, firmly, and then let out a triumphant howl and barrelled forwards, wrapping his great limbs around Merry and nuzzling against his neck. Laughing, Merry hugged his wolf as tightly as he could, and pressed a kiss to Denahi's forehead.

"Good boy," he murmured, and then he looked to Pippin and smiled sheepishly. "Oh… I am sorry, Pippin.

"Sorry?" said Pippin, looking confused even as water dripped down into his eyes. "What for?"

Merry rolled his eyes and offered Pippin his hand. "Throwing you into the stream."

Pippin smiled, taking Merry's hand. "Oh, it's quite alright." He put his foot on the bank, and then yanked Merry as hard as he could, tugging him into the stream. The water was shallow and cold, and Merry spluttered to the surface with no small amount of flailing, but he could not wipe the grin from his face.

"Well, that's very mature, Pippin," he said, hoisting himself out of the stream. There was so much joy in his chest that it was a wonder that it did not carry him into the air. Together, the two hobbits clambered out of the river like half-drowned cats, and collapsed on the bank in the sun.

With a soft whine, Denahi whined loped over to the stream, and leant down to the water. For a long, long time he drank, without stopping even to breathe, and Merry propped himself up on his elbows.

"Just how long were you running, boy? You surely didn't come from the High Pass?"

Denahi whined, looking up and over his shoulder. Water was dripping from his chin, and he breathed very heavily, nodding at Merry before returning to the river and drinking again. Finally, he rose, and walked slowly to Merry's side, collapsing beside him and resting his face on Merry's stomach.

"Merry, it's a little chilly," Pippin commented lightly. "You oughtn't have pushed me in, I have no spare clothes. My mother will be very unimpressed."

Deciding that, despite his teasing, Pippin had a point, the two hobbits stripped down to their undergarments and hung their clothes on a tree to dry in the sun. They wrapped their elven cloaks around themselves and settled down by a large tree, far enough from the stream that they would not fall in again. Soon, Merry was warm and comfortable again, and he sat with Denahi's head in his lap. At his side, Pippin began to chatter happily, and relief filled Merry from head to toe.

It was quite a while later that Treebeard appeared. The sun was waning, and the afternoon drawing on, and as his surprisingly quiet footsteps approached, Denahi raised his head and began to growl.

"It's alright," said Merry soothingly, stroking Denahi's ears. "It's just Treebeard. He's a friend of ours."

Treebeard strode into the clearing and Denahi sprang to his feet, staring incredulously at Merry. In turn, the ent raised his old eyebrows and clenched his hands slowly into fists.

"Master Merry, Master Pippin," he said evenly, staring at Denahi, "are you alright?"

"Most definitely" said Merry eagerly. "Treebeard, this is Denahi, my wolf. He's from Wilderland, one of the wolves of Beorn himself. Denahi, this is Treebeard. He's been looking after us since we got away from the orcs. He is an ent."

"The Ent, as some say," agreed Treebeard, nodding his head slowly. "Welcome, Master Denahi. Well – it is time, young hobbits. We must go. Tomorrow, we shall be at Entmoot, and here is some distance between here and there."

"Where is Entmoot?" Pippin asked curiously, as Merry passed him the rest of his clothes. They were only a little damp, by now. "And why are we going there?"

"Entmoot is not a where, but a what," said Treebeard patiently, lifting Pippin gently from the ground and settling him on his shoulder. "It is a meeting, of all the ents. And we are going there to discuss what to about Saruman, bararum. There is something to be done, and we are to decide what that shall be." He settled Merry onto his other shoulder, and then peered down at Denahi. "Well, would your friend like a ride, too, Master Merry?"

Denahi skittered backwards, but Merry smiled. "It's alright," he called soothingly. "Treebeard is safe, he's a friend. Do you want to rest your legs a while? You've come a long way, there's no shame in a little rest."

Denahi stared at Merry apprehensively for a long moment, and then nodded, once. He crept forward, and Treebeard stretched out a giant hand, settling the wolf in the crook of his arm. At first, Denahi scrambled and wriggled uncomfortably, and he let out a whine of alarm when Treebeard moved, but Merry reached down and stroked him gently, and the wolf finally relaxed. With a deep sigh, Denahi relaxed into Treebeard's arm and slipped into sleep.

Many a creature gaped as they walked past, and trees and ents that had been slipping towards sleep were wakened by the strange sight – the sight of the oldest Ent of them all cradling a wolf in his arms, with hobbits on his shoulders, and fire in his eyes.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! I know it isn't necessarily huge plot wise, and I intended on having it as a two parter with the Hunters' arrival at Edoras, but I ran out of time. That'll be coming up next, though! Please do let me know what you think, I absolutely adore every review I get and they really make this experience so much richer.**

 **Thank you for reading, and have a lovely day.**


	60. Chapter 60: Meduseld

**Hi there! Sorry about the delay, I have very little in the way of free time this week, with a driving test and an audition coming up before Sunday, so my stress levels have been up a wee bit more than usual too. I hope that it hasn't let too many typos through.**

 **Also, I would like to give a HUGE shout out to Child of Dreams, who has reviewed so many chapters that we're now in triple digits for the reviews on this story! Having come down from Strangers and a norm of 7+ reviews each chapter was scary, and it's awesome to have hit 100 reviews again. Of course, as always, I truly offer my deepest thanks to everyone who reviews (though I worry that I am running out of ways to say that without sounding sarcastic. Anyway, enjoy!**

 **Also-also, as a side-note I noticed yesterday that I've been placing the accents in the wrong places for Éomer and Éowyn all my life! I always put the accent over the 'o', and now I'm not sure why, as it doesn't even make much sense to do so, but yeah! I'm sure most of you didn't notice/care, but I'll be using the correct spellings now!**

 **Chapter Sixty: Meduseld**

Dawn was breaking as they approached Edoras, and the glow of warm, red light set the golden roof of Meduseld ablaze. It shone like burnished gold, but the city looked lonelier than ever. Boromir had never noticed before how isolated it looked – a small city built onto a rugged hill, the only settlement for miles, with the only buildings on the horizon, encased by a great, wooden wall.

The rugged hills and crags of the plains around it were silent, and not a soul moved upon them. Even inside its walls, Edoras looked still. It looked quiet.

It looked like it was waiting.

"Do not expect a welcome," said Gandalf quietly as they approached the gates. "I suspect that Théoden is deeply under some spell of Saruman, for he is not a man that would willingly let orcs travel across his lands, nor let his people lie so vulnerable. There is some dark influence here, and it shall seek to keep us out."

"Let it," growled Gimli. "To hew some evil heads from their necks would make me feel a lot better."

"No!" said Gandalf, sharply. "No, Gimli, there must be no hewing here! Save your axe for the orcs, and for those you meet in battle. Did you not hear me when I spoke of spells and influence? I pray, have patience, my friend. You shall have plenty of chances for vengeance soon enough. No, here we must be subtle, and respect that those who may oppose us are afraid, and under orders from their king."

Gimli's scowl deepened, but he nodded and released the handle of his axe. A small sigh of relief left Boromir, and he turned his eyes to the gates. There were two men before them, fully armoured and fully armed, and as the riders approached they lowered their spears.

"Halt! Who goes there, riding the horses of the Mark?" they cried in their own tongue. Though he understood it, Boromir was surprised to hear it, and Legolas and Gimli simply stared dumbly at the guards.

"Why do you not speak in the Common Tongue, if you are expecting an answer?" asked Gandalf in the same language, before reverting to Westron. "And I deem you know who I am, Master Háma."

The man who had spoken nodded, but did not lower his staff. "Indeed, Gandalf the Grey, but no longer are you a friend here. The king is grieved by your meddling, and your warmongering." Háma spoke in the Common Tongue, and he did not – at least to Boromir's ears – sound wholly convinced by what it was he was saying.

The other guard looked sharply at him, and spoke again in Rohirric. "In such dark times we are under orders to admit only known friends of Rohan passage into Edoras, and knowledge of our tongue foretells friendship indeed. Yet only you seem to speak it, Gandalf Stormcrow, and your companions ride horses that belong to us."

"These horses were leant to us by Éomer, son of Éomund," said Aragorn firmly, speaking with an accent so smooth that he might have been born of Rohan. "We return them to their homestead as we promised."

The two guards looked at each other, and shuffled uncomfortably, and Boromir's eyes narrowed. Even the nameless guard, the man who bore more suspicion in his brow, seemed troubled.

"Éomer, son of Éomund, is in prison," said Háma slowly, as though the words pained him. "For treason against the king, and for selling our horses to strangers, and lying to cover his tracks."

"And what lies might those be?" asked Gandalf hotly, shifting in his saddle. "For here are the horses that I suspect were deemed sold, or stolen, and they are neither of those. They were leant, as you have been told."

Again, the guards looked at each other and this time it was the nameless guard who spoke. "My Lord Éomer claimed that the horses were leant to Boromir of Gondor, which Lord Gríma deemed to be a lie, for Boromir of Gondor is dead."

Boromir was so startled that he all but stammered his next words. "Boromir of Gondor is not dead! I am here. Tell me, guard, do I seem to be a ghost to you?"

"Lord Gríma?" Gandalf's voice was sharp and suspicious, though he glossed over the news of Boromir's apparent death. "Would this be Gríma Wormtongue, perhaps?"

Háma nodded vaguely, but he and the other guard were both staring at Boromir as though they had never seen another man before.

"He said that he had word that you had been slaughtered by a party of goblins from the Misty Mountains, my Lord" said the other guard to Boromir. "I am glad to see it proved false."

Gandalf's lip curled in disgust. "Then let us pass, and prove more of Wormtongue's words as falsehoods. I have travelled far to treat with Théoden, who was of old my friend, and I _will_ see him."

The guards exchanged looks again, and slowly lowered their spears, though they made no move to open the gates. "Very well – but first, who are your companions? Lord Boromir we are pleased to meet, and know of him well, but these are strangers to us."

"Yet I am no stranger of Rohan," said Aragorn. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I am heir of Isildur. This is Legolas, son of the Elvenking in Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Glóin. His father is one of the High Lords of Erebor – a realm that I believe you treat with."

A shadow passed over Háma's face as he looked at Gimli, and he shook his head slightly. "It is true that we have treated with them, but we have had no word from the mountain in a long time. Of all our old allies, Gríma has spoken ill, and the Lonely Mountain is not the least hated by him."

"Ever will a man try to isolate those he would wish to destroy from their true friends and allies," said Gandalf. "I have heard enough. Open these gates, Master Háma."

Háma bowed low, and with a final nod from the other guard, he unlocked the gate and pulled it open. With a nod, Gandalf rode inside, and the others followed.

"Follow me, my Lords," said Háma, and he strode before Gandalf to lead the way through the city.

The hooves of their horses clattered loudly on the paved streets, and drew the wary eyes of the locals. There was none of the usual noises of the merry city – there was no music and no laughter, and not even the thrum of voices. There were only whispers, sparse and rare, and silence. A raven cawed, and Boromir watched as it took off from the roof of Meduseld, sending a few strands of straw tumbling to the ground below.

It had been less than a year since he was last at Edoras, and in that time the life of the city had withered to that of the White Tree of Gondor.

"You'd find more cheer in a graveyard," muttered Gimli, and Legolas nodded.

"They have much to grieve," Boromir murmured back, but he nodded, too. Gimli was right.

They dismounted before the stairs of the great hall, and Gandalf strode purposefully towards the door. But Háma held out his hand, with an apologetic look on his face. Resolution burnt strong in his eyes.

"Forgive me, but I cannot let you stand before the king so armed. You must leave your weapons at the door."

At once, Boromir laid his shield against the wall, and his sword beneath it. Then, with great care he pulled out the swords of Merry and Pippin from their place in the single bag that he carried, and laid them beside his own sword. He would return them soon, and his heart was lifted with the knowledge that they would be borne back to owners still living and breathing. Gandalf's sword was rested beside them, and after a moment's hesitation, Legolas laid down his knives and bow.

But Aragorn lingered for longer, his eyes on Háma and his hand on his sword, and Gimli watched him, his fingers gripped tightly around his axe.

"Come now, Aragorn," said Gandalf. "A king has every right to ban weapons from his hall, especially in such times as these."

After another endless moment, Aragorn gave a single nod. He laid his sword and sheath down by Gandalf's but then he spoke to the guards in a voice more kingly than Boromir had ever heard from him.

"This is Andúril, Flame of the West, made from the shards of Narsil – the sword of Elendil that smote the ring of power from Sauron's hand in days of old. Make sure that no one touches this blade, unless they wish to make an enemy of Isildur's heir."

With wide eyes, Háma and the other guards nodded and bowed.

"None shall touch it, Lord," swore Háma.

Gimli gave a satisfied nod. "Well, in that case my axe will sit happily beside Andúril, knowing that it is indeed in noble company."

Háma looked to Gandalf, hesitation again in his eyes. "Forgive me, Master Gandalf, but your staff-"

"Oh, you wouldn't part an old man from his walking stick, would you?" said the wizard gently, with an innocent smile that Boromir did not buy for a moment. But Háma nodded in defeat, and opened the doors.

The Golden Hall of Edoras did not look golden this day. The windows were shrouded, and the sun's light smothered by thick, heavy curtains. The lamps burnt low, and guards prowled the shadows on either side of the hall. Their eyes turned to the newcomers, suspicious and cold, and the hall was otherwise empty. Quiet.

The air inside did not move, and time seemed to hang still, as though the very room was holding its breath.

But what chilled Boromir the most was the sight of the wizened old man that sat in the throne at the end of the hall. Théoden seemed to have aged three decades in the time since Boromir had last seen him, and he was bowed low in his chair. His eyes were hooded and dull, and his skin as wrinkled and frail as crumpled paper. His hair was wiry and white, so thin that it looked like you could simply dust it from his head, and his clothes hung loosely upon him. For a moment, Boromir thought that some deathly illness must have struck the king, but then Gandalf's words returned to him, and a chill dripped down his spine.

"…some spell of Saruman's…"

Hatred rose hot in Boromir's chest, a loathing against the wizard who would do such a thing to a fair and noble king, against the devil who had kidnapped the young hobbits, and who now may have Nelly and Bróin clutched in his grasp. He yearned to meet Saruman, with a dark and deep desire, to shove his sword through the wizard's neck and make him pay for the grief he had caused.

"The courtesy of your Hall has lessened of late, Théoden King," said Gandalf imperiously, pulling Boromir from his thoughts. He shook his head slightly, cooling his temper, and looked to the throne one more. A man was standing, unfurling his crooked back to stare at Gandalf, but it was not Théoden. It was a pale, sallow man beside him, a man who had been whispering into the king's ear since they entered the hall. Boromir remembered him from the previous summer, though he could not put a name to him.

"My Lord," said the man, in a voice that was sly as a snake, "Gandalf the Grey is here."

Théoden slowly raised his head, and Boromir saw that his eyes were pale and misted. When he spoke, his voice was weak and shaking. "Why should we welcome you, Gandalf Stormcrow?"

"A just question, my liege," drawled Gríma, glaring at Gandalf as he strode slowly down the hall. "Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear. Lathspell I name him – ill news is an ill guest."

"That is enough!" Gandalf's voice broke across the room like an icicle shattering on a stone floor, and he strode towards. "I did not travel through fire and ash to bandy words with a witless worm like you. Keep your forked tongue beneath your teeth."

Gríma recoiled, and Boromir snorted, but he had no more than a second to enjoy the aghast expression on the snake-man's face. Gandalf held up his staff, and what little colour he had left drained from Gríma's face.

"His staff!" he growled, looking to the guards. "I _told_ you to take the wizard's staff!"

At once, the guards lurched forward, and Boromir joined his friends in the wizard's defence. It was a little difficult to fight when he knew that he would do exactly as the guards were doing had this occurred in his own halls, but he kept them away from Gandalf all the same. Gimli, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself a little too much.

"Théoden, son of Thengel," cried Gandalf imperiously, throwing his arms open wide. "Hearken to me!"

One of the Rohirrim made a pass for Gandalf, and Boromir struck him in the gut.

"I'm sorry!" he said earnestly, as he knocked the man's feet from beneath him. "It's for your own good!"

"Too long have you lingered in the shadows," said Gandalf, drawing closer and closer to Théoden. The king cowered in his throne, and the wizard slowly raised his hand, and closed his eyes. "I release you, from the spell."

At those words, many of the guards stopped fighting, or at least became more half-hearted in their attempts at reaching the wizard. In the corner, Boromir noticed Háma holding back another guard with a slight shake of his head.

The guard that Boromir had struck was gazing at the wizard in awe, and slowly climbing to his feet. Boromir stepped forward in case he needed to restrain the soldier again, but the man made no move to fight.

Then Théoden, sprawled across his throne like a dying dog, began to laugh. It was a hideous, wrenching sound, and when he spoke, it was in a voice unlike that of the king – a voice that Boromir did not recognise at all. It was a voice that was cold and deep, and unnervingly close to Gandalf's.

Those few guards that had continued to fight dropped their arms at once, staring, transfixed, at their king. Their faces were wrought with confusion and concern, though some bore expressions that could only be described as horror.

"You have no power here," crooned the man in the throne, and he spat the wizard's name like an insult. "Gandalf the Grey."

With one swift movement, Gandalf threw off his grey cloaks, and his white robes shone unhindered as they had in Fangorn Forest. The men of Rohan drew back and shielded their eyes, and Boromir watched in awe as Gandalf thrust his staff towards Théoden.

"I will draw you, Saruman, like poison is drawn from a wound," he snarled, with an intensity that almost burnt to look at.

"If I go, Théoden dies!" spat the man in the throne, and Boromir's eyes snapped to Gandalf. If they stood here and killed the king of Rohan, that would go ill for everyone.

The fluttering of a white gown caught Boromir's eye and he glanced to his right. A tall, golden haired woman ran into the room, a woman that he recognised at once. The moment that she saw the king quailing in his chair Éowyn ran forward, undeterred by the sight of Gandalf, but Aragorn intercepted her, and held her back.

Narrowing his eyes, Gandalf took another step towards Théoden. "You did not kill me, and you will not kill him!" he declared. "Begone!"

Théoden growled like a wild beast, cringing and curling in his throne, and then he sprang forward, hands outstretched like claws, but Gandalf thrust his staff forward. Though Boromir could see no contact, Théoden was flung back, and crashed into the back of his own throne.

At once, the glow around Gandalf's robes dulled, and a smile of grim satisfaction spread across the wizard's face. Slowly, he lowered his staff, and Aragorn released Éowyn's arm. She sprang forwards, grabbing the king before he fell from his throne, but even as she reached him, Théoden began to sit up.

Struck dumb by awe, Boromir watched as the age fell away from Théoden's face – he saw the king's pallor strengthen, and his hair grow thicker, and more golden. The wrinkled, papery skin became smoother, with the only lines being those carved by the years that Théoden had lived, and his chest rose, rolling his shoulder's back.

Yet the keenest difference was in his eyes – they were no longer clouded and dull, but sharp and clear, and they stared at the room around them with the confusion of one waking from a long, accidental sleep. When they fell on Éowyn, they narrowed, and a slight smile twitched at his lip.

"I know your face," he murmured, putting a hand on her arm. His smile grew, as though he had not seen her for many months. "Éowyn…"

Éowyn gave a gasping laugh and beamed, even as tears filled her eyes. The king put a hand on her face, and then looked around the room. He started at the sight of Gandalf, more confused than ever.

"Gandalf?" he whispered, and the wizard smiled.

"Breathe the free air again, my friend," he said, gently waving his hand. The thick curtains over the windows parted, and light poured down into the hall once more.

Slowly, Théoden stood up, and at once his men bowed down. Their faces shone with relief, and with wonder, and Boromir grinned as Théoden rose to his full height.

Without the cloud of witchcraft in his eyes, Théoden looked as alert as Boromir had ever seen him, though when his eyes fell on the people in his hall, confusion was quick to overcome them, and his mouth dropped open slightly. Gimli was standing tall and proud, and as the king's gaze moved from the dwarf to the elf to the wizard it grew more and more bemused. Boromir wondered when Théoden had last seen a dwarf, or an elf. When he finally looked to Boromir, relief flickered in Théoden's eyes. It was clear that he was grateful to see one who he might expect to visit his halls on any other day – a man, a man that he knew.

"Boromir? Boromir of Gondor?"

"At your service, my Lord," said Boromir with a short bow.

"How came you here?" asked Théoden, his gaze wandering back to Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli. "I feel as though I have awakened, though I look around and wonder if I have not fallen into a dream instead?"

Boromir laughed. "No, my lord, you are not dreaming. I travel with strange companions, but these days are strange and dark."

"Yes," Théoden murmured, peering down at his own hands. "Dark have been my dreams of late… What is going on here? Gandalf?"

"You have awoken, my lord, from a spell put upon you by Saruman," said Gandalf gravely. "For many days he has poisoned your thought, and restrained your conscience, through both spell-craft, and by the words of Gríma Wormtongue. Awake, your body has been, and aged beyond its time, yet your mind was kept in a clouded slumber. Now your lands lie vulnerable on the brink of war, and Saruman is preparing to strike."

"Lies!" gasped Gríma squirming like a maggot beneath Gimli's boot. "My lord, he lies – I have only ever lived to serve you, my lord! Have I not served you well?"

Despite the disgust on his face, hesitance danced in Théoden's eyes as he stared at his servant. Boromir did not blame him – treason was never an easy thing to discover.

"If you wish for more in the way of proof of the treachery of Gríma, see here," said Gandalf, clapping a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "Six days ago, Boromir of Gondor was overrun by a hundred orcs, and they pinned him to the ground, that he might watch them carry away his friends before he died. They were uruk-hai, under the command of Saruman, and they believed that they had done enough to finish the job. This news they brought to Saruman, and in turn to Gríma. This he spread about your lands – in a move rather foolish, I must say, having no proof of his own to the claims. And indeed, they are false."

"I was lucky," said Boromir, maintaining eye contact with Théoden even as he held out his arm to gesture at the others. "I owe my life to my companions. They reached me in time, before any true damage could be done."

Théoden nodded slowly, understanding dawning on his face, and Boromir nodded back. He could not even begin to imagine how confused the king must be, to awake to such uncertainty, and to see such strange folk in his halls. It was the least Boromir could do to assure Théoden that his companions were true, and posed no threat.

"Now, Théoden King, it is time to reclaim your kingdom," said Gandalf, holding out his hand. "Your fingers might remember their own strength better if they grasped the hilt of your sword."

Théoden nodded, his hand shifting to his empty belt. He looked to Éowyn with a light frown. "Where is my sword?"

"It was put away, my lord," she said. "On your orders."

"As was Éomer, son of Éomund, I believe," said Gandalf pointedly, and Théoden's look of bewilderment grew. "Your door warden tells me he was imprisoned the day before yesterday."

Fury lighting in his eyes, Théoden shook his head a little. "Imprisoned? On what charge?"

"Treason, apparently," said Gandalf, glaring at Gríma, and the king ground his teeth.

Slowly, as though he was afraid of losing control, he turned to Éowyn. "I do not wish to waste time asking questions whose answers I know in my heart, but for the sake of sense I must. Was there any truth to the charges?" he asked, his voice trembling with rage. "You know your brother better than any."

"Yet his heart is open to you, my Lord," she said, and she sent Gríma a glare that would have struck a weak-heart dead. "Éomer has never been a traitor, nor would he ever do harm to Rohan. You know this, my Lord."

"I do," growled Théoden. "I do indeed. Háma – bring me Éomer at once, and bring me my sword. Unless there is any man here that would stand to validate Gríma's claims?"

A deafening silence replied to him, and Háma bowed low, ducking out of the door. Again, the king turned to Éowyn. "How long was I under this spell?"

Éowyn bowed her head slightly. "It is hard to say, my lord. At first the change was so little – what do you last remember?"

Théoden pursed his lips, and nodded at her. "We will discuss it later." She bowed, and Théoden smiled at her. Then he looked at Boromir again.

"Are you hurt, lord Boromir? Those orcs have left for dead rarely escape unscathed."

"I am alright," said Boromir evenly. "A little achier and wearier than my friends, perhaps, but I will be fine. I do not think the orcs realised that I was wearing mail – their arrows did little damage."

"Beside some rather pretty bruises," said Gimli.

The doors swung open, and Háma led Éomer in. His eyes were even darker than they had been two days before, but when they fell upon Gandalf and Boromir they lightened, and when they took in Théoden, upright and alert, they shone. Without a word, Éomer knelt before the king, offering up Théoden's sword with a bowed head.

When Théoden's fingers wrapped around the hilt of the sword, he stood a little taller, and he weighed it for a moment. But then he lowered the sword and put a hand on Éomer's shoulder.

"Arise, my sister-son," he said. "I pardon you for any crime that was laced upon your head, and ask your pardon in return."

"My sword is yours to command, as ever it has been," replied Éomer, but he could not keep his smile from his face.

Théoden bowed his head, and turned to Gríma. His grip shifted around his sword and Gríma gave a whine like a wounded dog.

"You have betrayed us all, Gríma," he said gravely, and there was regret and pain mingling with the anger in his voice. "What great price could be worth the pain you have brought upon us? With what promise did Saruman buy you?"

"That when all the men were dead he could have his pick of the treasure," snarled Éomer, and at once Gríma's eyes flickered across towards the king –

But no – they fell on Éowyn.

With a snarl, Éomer lurched forward. Éowyn caught his arm, holding him back, and though he shook off her arm, he did not advance further.

"Too long have you watched my sister," he hissed, and Éowyn looked away. "Too long have you haunted her steps."

Théoden glanced sharply between his sister's children and Gríma, and understanding dawned on his face. An inferno of fury raged in his eyes, and he took a step towards Gríma.

"No more," he said, shifting his grip on his sword. "You will bring no more harm to my people!"

"If I may," said Gandalf slowly, "I would advise this. Give him a horse, and a choice. Let him ride to war, or let him flee. By his choice you may judge him, and prevent more blood from being spilled on his behalf. Now he is nothing more than a snake, but once he was a man, and that should not be forgotten."

"Men have killed men for less," muttered Éomer, and Boromir could not help but agree.

For a long moment, Théoden considered, and then he gave a single nod. "Very well. What shall it be Gríma? Shall you choose valour, or treachery?"

Gandalf nodded slightly at Gimli, and Boromir rolled his eyes as the dwarf 'failed' to notice the gesture. Aragorn smacked Gimli on the shoulder, and with a dramatic sigh, Gimli removed his foot from Gríma's chest.

Scrambling to his feet, Gríma spat at the feet of the king and turned, fleeing from the hall with a string of curses that almost made Boromir blush.

"Give him a horse," called Théoden, "if any will bear him. Make sure he brings no harm to anyone, but do not hinder him. Let him go. It is one less worry on my mind."

"I think it would be safer to slay him," said Gimli bluntly. "The elf could still get him."

Éomer and Boromir nodded, but Gandalf shook his head.

"If he does go to Saruman, as I suspect he will, given his choices, he may be of use to us later. A wretch and a traitor he is, but Gríma is not without pity," he said.

Though it made little sense to Boromir, this seemed to appease Théoden, and after a moment Gimli gave a small nod.

"Now," said Théoden, "I would like to hear exactly what it is that has brought you here, and just what you mean by the brink of war. But first, where is Theodred? Where is my son?"

 **And there we end, finally, for this week. I hope to update sooner than Wednesday next week, but given my schedule it may not be possible. Regardless, I will do my best. Thank you for reading this chapter, please do let me know how you feel about it! Reviews are such a wonderful way of gauging what works and what doesn't, and a great reassurance that I am not the only one who values the time I put into this story.**

 **That said, what's really important is the reading, so I thank you all for that, and I hope to see you soon.**


	61. Chapter 61: Of Fire and Flight

**Hey there! Sorry about the stupidly late update this week, I've been really busy, and have found this chapter tricky to write, as it's all 100% new! I hope that means it'll at least be great for you guys, but of course, you are the judge of that!**

 **Thank you to the lovely, wonderful people who reviewed the last chapter, I appreciate it more than I can say.**

 **I hope that you enjoy this chapter, and as ever, I'm sorry for the typos that I will have inevitably made.**

 **Chapter Sixty-One: Of Fire and Flight**

The cave was eerily, unnaturally quiet. Just one week ago, it had been filled to the bursting, packed with Men and beasts alike, bursting with the noises of living. Sniffing and snoring, speaking and walking, laughing and crying.

The sounds of the lives of hundreds had filled the small space, but now the cavern seemed very large indeed, and the sounds of those who remained were like the soft buzz of insects on a warm summers night. All but unnoticeable.

Everywhere Fíli looked, he saw the empty spaces where people had been. There were scraps of sheet and fabric strewn across the floor, the fragments of meagre tents and shelters that had been left behind. Discarded clothes and housewares lay abandoned in the gloom, and littered throughout them were comforts, precious things that had been forgotten in the heat of the moment, or left behind to make room for more food, or water. There were instruments, finely made and beautiful, and intricately carved pipes and combs and whittling tools. Leather-bound books and journals lay tattered and forgotten, guarded by the lonely toys of long-gone children.

In one corner, a girl of ten was turning a doll over and over in her hands, a contemplative frown on her brow. There was something about her gaze that unnerved Fíli – it was empty. Hopeless. As he watched, she sighed, and squeezed the doll to her chest. Then she kissed its forehead, and its cheeks and nose, and then she rested it carefully against the wall, beside a small, cuddly bear toy, and a man's pipe. She got to her feet and turned away, her shoulders rising up and curling inwards as though she did not want the doll to see her leave.

Most of the children had gone now. There were only Grimbeorn's own children and nephew left, along with a small handful of orphans and warrior's children that would be among the last to flee. The little girl was one of them. But across the back wall were a small pack of young skin-changers, between the ages of twelve and twenty, who would not be evacuating with the others.

They would among be the lighting party, and it stung Fíli every time that he looked at them. By rights they were too young for this, but Grimbeorn had only managed to gather a hundred able-bodied troops, and they needed the numbers.

Over the past five days, they had managed to evacuate around two hundred and seventy people, slipping them out in groups of fourteen or fifteen at dawn and dusk, and carefully signalled moments at midday. Though the women and children had been prioritised, most of those who could not turn had also been sent northwards. Their skills in war were not lax, but Grimbeorn trusted their blades more than their legs, and favoured their odds against orcs over that of fleeing a forest fire. The few that remained owned fast, brave horses, and the dwarves had their wolves. All their ponies had been evacuated with earlier groups, save one.

Odo, stubborn as his master, had refused to leave Glóin's side, so he was being saddled now. Preparing to leave with the very last group of evacuees. The last of the Beorning children, and Grimbeorn's wife. Glóin was to go with them, in no small part owing to his still-healing injuries (though he insisted that he was all but well by now) and Nori and Vinca would also be accompanying them.

As would Fíli's parents.

He was glad that they were going, and relieved beyond words that they would be among those attempting to sneak to safety, but fear and uncertainty stirred in his gut. By her own calculations, Dís was now around six months pregnant, and things were more dangerous than ever. To watch her leave, to sneak into the unknown without him – it felt like the most cowardly thing he could do. Yet it was not, and he knew that it was not. He had the more deadly task – he would be the one running headfirst into danger. More importantly, so would Kíli, and Bragi and Ehren and Nori. He would not leave them. He could not.

This was _his_ plan, after all.

As he looked around the emptying hall, he hoped that it was a good one. There were around eighty people left here, but they looked to be so few, and so young. Two days ago, Thana had taken thirty warriors south, so that they might reach Dol Guldur by the following morning, and warn any lingering survivors of the flames that were coming. The scouts had reported good progress, but every day Fíli feared that they would bring news of a massacre. Now, as he watched his parents and friends prepare to depart, that fear grew.

At last, Fíli knew that there was no more time to delay the parting. Dusk was descending upon them, and as soon as it cloaked their exit and the gate guards gave the signal, the final group of evacuees would make their flight. Already, the others were exchanging hugs and words of comfort, and with a heavy heart, Fíli joined them. He clasped Emblyn's hands tightly and bade her farewell, and smiled at the two quiet infants beside her. He told Aeron to be brave, and to trust to his instincts.

"After all, you fought off the monster Gollum when you were just a babe," he said, and the boy hugged him tightly, before falling back into his father's arms, and adding another ache to Fíli's heart. When Thana had left, Fíli expected that Jago would stay with their son, but instead, Aeron was being sent on with Emblyn, and Jago was to join Grimbeorn in the lighting party. Fíli did not know how they could do it, but he made no protest. This was their choice, not his.

Then, the time came to say goodbye to his kin. He came to Bofur first, and they exchanged a fierce hug and words of care for a long moment, before breaking apart. Then, he met Vinca, and she wrapped her arms around his neck so tightly that for a moment, he could not breathe.

"I'll see you soon, won't I?" she demanded, but her voice trembled.

"Of course," murmured Fíli, smiling when her arms grew even tighter.

"Promise me?"

"I promise," he said, pulling away to look at her for a moment. For the first time in a while, he wondered if they really had made a mistake by allowing Vinca to join them. While she was a capable tracker and swordswoman, she was still not that far into her tweens, and closer to childhood than adulthood. In age she seemed so similar to the young Beornings against the back wall, those of fifteen or sixteen years old. She did not usually look like a child – she carried herself with the poise of a lady, but now her eyes were swimming with tears, and concern had wrinkled into her brow. There was a look of uncertainty and vulnerability on her face, and for the first time, Fíli thought that she looked her age.

"It will be alright," he promised, putting a hand on her shoulder. "But take care of yourself, alright?"

"I will," she said a wry smile creeping over her face. "My name is not Nelly, or Pippin. And don't worry. I'll look after your mother, too."

With that she turned to bid farewell to Ehren and Bragi, and Fíli was left to face his parents with a lump already in his throat. Kíli was enveloped in their mother's arms, so Fíli reached out to Bilbo, holding the hobbit as tightly as he dared.

"Now," said Bilbo, a croak in his voice, "you look after yourself, Fíli, do you hear me? You take care, and you catch up with us in one piece, alright?"

Fíli smiled. "Of course. And you know that I will look after Kíli-"

Bilbo pulled away slightly, and put his hands on either side of Fíli's face. "I do know that, and I love you for it, but I love you for yourself just as fiercely. Please, my lad, don't find any more knives to take. Look after yourself."

Fíli's throat stoppered entirely as his own mind went back to Weathertop. He nodded, but Bilbo shook his head and swallowed.

"We always call Kíli the troublemaker, and not without reason, but you seem to be the one we are always close to losing, Fíli. And I could not bear to lose you. It would – it would break my heart. So, the both of you, you need to take care of yourselves. Promise me."

Fíli swallowed and nodded again. "I promise, Bilbo." He fell forwards, wrapping his arms around Bilbo again. "But you and Amad must do the same."

"Of course," chuckled Bilbo weakly. "But oh, look at us saying farewell as though we were to sail across the sea – it will only be a few days, I am sure."

"I hope so," agreed Fíli, and his eyes closed tightly. "I love you, Bilbo."

Bilbo's hand ran through Fíli's hair. "Oh, I love you too, my boy. So, so much."

Slowly, they parted, and for a second Fíli caught a sight of his brother's glittering eyes, before they swapped places, and Fíli all but tumbled into his mother's arms.

"Oh dashtith," she murmured, her fingers sinking into his hair. "It goes against all of my instincts not to stay here with you."

"It goes against all of mine to let you go on without me," admitted Fíli. He wished he could hold her closer, but the baby was too big a bump between them.

"It will not be for long," Dís said gently, releasing him so that she could look him in the eye. "Look after yourself, my little lion. Be careful and be clever, and we will meet again, before too much time has passed."

"The same to you," insisted Fíli, his eyes trailing down to her stomach. With a small smile, he rested his hands on the bump. "You take care, too," he murmured. "Look after our Ama, you hear?"

To his absolute shock, something moved beneath Fíli's fingers, and Dís laughed a little. "I think they heard you," she said.

"That was the baby?" Fíli breathed, and as if in answer he felt it again – that pulse of movement, like a tiny, little kick. With a warm smile, Dís nodded, and Fíli felt a lump in his throat once again.

"It is time to ready to leave," said one of the scouts suddenly. "Dusk is nearly upon us."

The smiles fell away from Fíli and Dís, and they collapsed back into a fierce embrace.

"I love you, Fíli," she whispered in his ear, kissing him on the cheek and pulling away even as Fíli replied, "I love you, too."

The hobbits and dwarves mounted their wolves, and Grimbeorn guided the Emblyn over to Dís and Bilbo. She would be turning, and running with them as a fox, for it offered her heightened senses that could help make up for her blindness, but her two children were too young and too small to keep up, so Vinca would be carrying baby Bryn, while little Beron was to ride with Bilbo.

Now, however, Beorn was wrapped around his father, his little face pressed into Grimbeorn's shoulder, and his hands gripping his father's coat so tightly that they had gone white. Even his legs were locked around Grimbeorn, and even as Emblyn eased Bryn into Vinca's waiting arms, Beron gave a little whimper, and held on to his papa.

And when Fíli looked to the right, he saw that Kíli was still wrapped around Bilbo as tightly as Beron was around Grimbeorn. Both hobbit and dwarf had their eyes closed, and Kíli's face was buried in Bilbo's neck. He was shaking a little, and Bilbo's hands were running through his hair.

With a heavy sigh, Fíli hoisted a smile onto his face and took Kíli's arm.

"Come," he said gently. "It's time."

Starting slightly, Kíli nodded, and then stepped back with a weak attempt at a smile. Fíli wove his arm around his brother's shoulders and pulled him close.

"Beron, look," murmured Grimbeorn. "Look at the little bunny! He's going to give you lots of cuddles for just a little while, and then Papa will come back, alright?"

Beron looked suspiciously at his father's face. "Papa back?"

"Papa will come back," nodded Grimbeorn, his voice almost too quiet to catch.

Beron paused, thinking of this for a moment. Then, his eyes lit up. "Grandpa back?"

Grimbeorn drew a sharp intake of breath, his eyes screaming his pain, but he managed to shake his head and whisper, "No, baby boy. Grandpa cannot come back. But Papa will see you in just a few days, alright? Just a couple of sleeps. A tiny little while. In the meantime, you be good for Bilbo, and your Mama, alright? Can you do that?"

Beron considered for a moment, and then nodded once. Then he leant up, and kissed his father once on the nose. "Love you, Papa."

"I love you too, my little cub," said Grimbeorn, kissing his son's forehead and passing him to Bilbo. "Look after him, Master Baggins."

"Of course," murmured Bilbo, cuddling Beron to his chest as Grimbeorn carefully secured a sling around them both to keep the toddler safe, and allow Bilbo to use his hands. A similar sling already bound Bryn gently to Vinca's chest, and already the baby girl was dozing.

Taking a deep breath, Grimbeorn leant down and embraced his wife tightly. On other days, Fíli found the sigh comical, for while Grimbeorn was easily seven feet tall, it would be generous to call Emblyn four and a half feet. It was a height difference the size of a hobbit, something that even the couple themselves laughed about. Today, it just made Emblyn look smaller and more vulnerable, and drew attention to the obvious youth of Grimbeorn's face.

"Time to go to," said the scout, opening the door. "Dark has come. The signal will come very soon."

Nodding, Fíli stepped back, gently pulling Kíli with him. He raised his hand with a sad smile and waved, watching his family and friends until the door closed behind them.

And the cave felt even emptier.

Beside him, Kíli shivered, and rested his head on Fíli's shoulder. Grimbeorn let out a slow, shuddering breath, and hung his head. His hands were shaking, and Jago put a hand on his shoulder.

"They will be alright, Grim," he said firmly. "But now, it's time to go and get ready."

Time passed slowly that night. It was like the soft drip of a leaking roof, at first frustrating and then infuriating, but slow as it was it did pass, and when midnight came around, Fíli felt like he had run out of time. He did not know what more he could do to prepare for this mission, but he was sure that there was something he had missed. If they failed, if he led these hundred men and women to their deaths, Fíli was not sure that he would be able to forgive himself. It was his plan, after all. His responsibility, if things went awry.

But no – such thoughts would help no one, and he knew it. He had done all that he could, put forward the best plan that he could think of, and he had to concentrate on fulfilling it. If he focused on the possibilities of failure, he would steer straight towards them, and he knew it.

The call sounded strong and clear, the first signal to move, and a large man with a great beard led a group of twenty out of the caves. They were going south-west, to ride up the side of the Misty Mountains and set light to the woods there if they saw any significant movement from goblins or orcs.

Then, less than half an hour later, it was Fíli's turn to leave. He was among the smallest party – a group of only ten, with Grimbeorn at their head. Jago went with him as his advisor and guard. At least that was the official reason – Fíli suspected that Jago was there as a brother-in-law before all else. There were also three young skin-changers among them – triplets from the northern mountains, who had the ability to turn into sleek, grey wolves. By all accounts, they were the fastest and most stealthy of Grimbeorn's surviving warriors, though Fíli doubted that had seen more than fifteen summers.

Yet they were not the members of the group he was most concerned to see there. No – Fíli's conflict arose from having Kíli, Bragi, Ehren and Nori with him. Their target was to be the deadliest, for they were to make it as close as they could to Dol Guldur. They were the ones to get close enough to cause the orcs a problem, and there was no doubt in Fíli's mind that they were running into battle.

Fíli had long considered ordering his brother and friends to join the third group, that would be targeting the spider-webs of south east Mirkwood, or even the fourth party – the largest, and youngest – who would leave a few hours after Fíli, and be lighting the more northern fires, and have the shortest distance to flee once the blaze began.

In the end, though, he could not bear to be parted from them. Not when they begged him to stand by his side. All he could hope now was that he could protect them. If something happened to any of them, if he lost Bragi or Ehren or – heaven forbid – Kíli, Fíli knew that it would crush him, and if someone else took a knife for him –

If anyone else made themselves a shield for him, if anyone else died like Soren –

Fíli did not know that he would be able to carry on.

Sensing his master's discomfort, Sokka leant his head back with a soft whine, rubbing it against Fíli's hand. With a smile, Fíli fondled the wolf's ears. "Good boy," he murmured. "You ready?"

Sokka gave a huff of agreement, nodding his head.

At the signal of the guard, Grimbeorn led them out into the dark of the night. There was no moon, and clouds shrouded the stars, and but Fíli could see a fair bit in the dark, and he knew that they would not be relying on sight.

At least – not their own sight.

They travelled only for a few minutes before stopping, and Fíli felt a thrill of excitement and fear rush through him. This part of the plan had certainly not been his – Grimbeorn had suggested and arranged it, and Fíli had thought it very clever. Kíli thought it was absolutely wonderful.

But when the great eagle soared down, and ensnared Sokka and Fíli safely in its talons, Fíli nearly had a heart attack. They moved with such silence, such grace, and though he had expected it, he had not heard it coming. Higher and higher they rose, flying above the black world beneath them, until they could see lights twinkling in far distances, and the air around them grew harsh, and cold.

It was far from comfortable, but Fíli had no complaints. This way, they would be all but on Dol Guldur's doorstep when the sun rose, allowing them overtake Thana and her group. The eagles of the mountains had also agreed to set a watch over the fires, in case any of the groups cut each other off with the flames, something that was a great relief to Fíli.

For endless hours they flew, south in a line as straight as an arrow, until the darkness grew deeper, and then began to give. To their left, a warm, red glow kissed the horizon, and the far reach of Mirkwood was silhouetted by the rising sun.

Then, the eagles began to descend, soaring silently down to deposit the charges at the edge of the woods.

"You are as close as we will bear you to the Back Fortress," said the eagles' leader, in a voice as quiet as the wind. "It is directly to the east, in a line as straight as you can reckon it. Good luck."

With that, they took off again, their great wings sending a rush of air over Fíli. He dismounted, letting his feet touch the ground and allowing Denahi to stretch and wiggle around for a while, and the other dwarves did the same. They shared a bite to eat outside the trees, and stared apprehensively at the sickly woods. Here, in the south, Mirkwood seemed even more ominous than it did in the north – its trees were withered and twisted or smothered in oozing fungus or moss. And there were webs – thick, grey cobwebs veiling the trees. Fíli gave a light shudder. He did not want to encounter giant spiders again. But then Grimbeorn gave a growl, and began to stride towards the woods.

They followed.

There was no path to take this time, and no road to stray from. They were guided by Grimbeorn and the wolves, who wound in and out of the trees and avoided the worst of the webs with great care.

The woods were horribly quiet, and the silence made Fíli's skin crawl. He shivered, praying that it was fear, and not spiders, tiptoeing up and down his spine. With every step they took east, the woods seemed to close tighter around them. The stench of rot and refuse was thick in the air, and great, bulbous black mushrooms sprouted from between the tree-roots, letting out a putrid, white pus if they were so much as brushed up against. The air itself was stuffy and close, and uncomfortably warm. A bead of sweat was slipping down the back of Fíli's neck. The wolves' mouths hung ajar, and they panted, but it was quiet. They kept quiet.

And then they jerked to a halt, and the heads of the wolves turned to stare at a darkened spot between the trees. Fíli drew his sword, and in the same moment a great spider lurched from the shadows, throwing itself at Ehren and Bragi. To Fíli's horror, the beast was far larger than any they had seen in Mirkwood before – it was easily as large as Smaug's face, as big as the monster by the gates of Moria.

Terror wracking through him, Fíli threw himself back towards his friends, desperate to reach them before the spider did, but before he could an arrow sank deep into the creature's eye. It let out a horrific, gargling shriek, and with a flash of silver, Ehren's knife was flung into another eye. It staggered back and Bragi dove forward, driving the sword that he had bought from the Beornings deep into the spider's underbelly. It gave another hideous shriek, and shuddered to the ground, its legs curling beneath it.

Fíli let out a slow breath, raised his hand, and signed, "Are you alright?" to the two dwarves behind him.

"Of course," Ehren signed back, rolling his eyes, but Bragi was frowning, heavily.

He signed with fast, punctured gestures. "Keep your eyes ahead, Fíli. You are too worried about us, you are leaving yourself open. Focus."

Fíli nodded, once, and turned back to the front. Grimbeorn bowed, and then carried on.

Half an hour later, the trees began to thin, until at last they parted to reveal a scorched and barren earth lying at the feet of a fortress so evil that it had to be Dol Guldur. Great, grey turrets rose violently into the sky, and an aura of horror clung to the place like a thick mist. Even a couple of hundred meters away, hidden by the trees, Fíli could hear the howls and cackles and clamour of the orcs within.

They had made it.

"Right," Fíli murmured, though his throat felt very tight. "You know what to do. The oil should make the flames stick, but wait until the fire is high before you throw the flash flames. We do not want to give away our position before we have cover."

The others nodded, and like shadows in the moonlight they slipped out of sight. Fíli led the dwarves clockwise, while Grimbeorn led his kin the other way. Every hundred paces or so, someone fell back and stopped, so that by the time Fíli reached the other side of Dol Guldur, he was alone.

If he squinted, he could see Kíli through the trees, a couple of hundred feet to his right, and the bulking figure of Grimbeorn the same distance to his left. They were all in place, and Fíli's heart began to beat very fast. Dol Guldur was encircled by enemies, bound in a slight siege. Raising his arm, Fíli waved once at Kíli, and then turned, waiting until the signal reached Grimbeorn. By the time it did, Grimbeorn was already in the form of a man, his pale hand waving once at Fíli.

Without hesitation, Fíli dropped to his knees and took one of the sacks from Sokka's back. Full of dried leaves and twigs and scraps of paper, it was all they had in the way of kindling, and he built it up against the tree before him. Next, he reached for the Flame Powder in his pocket. It was not even as good quality as the cheapest of powders in Erebor, having been made with what accelerants that they could get their hands on from the Beornings, but Glóin had sacrificed his own Flame Powder to cut through it, and they knew that it would burn well.

Fíli sprinkled it first on the ground to the front of him, and then flung it as far as he could manage, casting it out into the chasm before the fortress. He lined up his flash flames behind him – they were not what would be considered war standard by any dwarf, but they would explode, and they would send out flaming oil as they did. They would do some damage.

Fíli took a deep breath, and glanced at his brother. He could not see him – Kíli's head was down, but the wolves had not howled. The wolves would howl if anyone was attacked. Trying to force his thoughts to his own feet, Fíli pulled the tinder box from his pocket. A thrill ran through him – terror or excitement, he did not know, but he knew that his hands were trembling as they struck the flint to the rock.

A spark danced through the air onto the kindling, and it caught with a soft hiss. For a moment, Fíli thought that he might have to strike the flint again, but then a small flame flickered up, and it began to devour the leaves, doubling in only a second, and within moments there was fire leaping up the tree. He could smell smoke in the air, and see flames out of the corner of both of his eyes, and he grabbed the first of his flash flames.

The timing was difficult – in minutes the flames would be too hot and force him to retreat, but it was not until they could hide him that he dared to lob his missiles. The first landed in no man's land, exploding with a burst of light and fire that leapt at the dead trees by the fortress walls. The screeches and horns of the orcs rose into the air, and Fíli heard crashes and explosions, and the sound of Ehren whooping at the top of his lungs. With a cry of his own, Fíli threw another Flash Flame, and this time it crashed into the wall of the fortress, shattering with a burst of blue fire.

Another he threw, and another, and then he took the final missile in his hand. The fire before him was raging, spreading from tree to tree more quickly than he had imagined, and Sokka was whining, cowering backwards with his tail between his legs.

Fíli hurled the Flash Flame with all his strength, and it sailed up into the air.

And then it came down, inside the walls of Dol Guldur, and a pillar of flame shot into the air with more ferocity than Fíli had ever seen. His eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open, and he began to stagger backwards himself as the shrieking of the orcs grew louder.

 _"Yes, Fíli!"_ roared Kíli, and despite everything, a smile flickered onto Fíli's face.

"Must've hit a lamp," he muttered to Sokka, and the wolf gave a whine that even Thorin could have translated. Fíli nodded, jumping back as the flames leapt closer. Already, the heat was immense. "Yes, Sokka, we can go now."

Fíli threw himself onto the wolf and at once Sokka lurched sideways, speeding back the way they had come. The fire chased after them, and as Fíli collected Kíli and Bragi and Ehren and Nori, he saw that they had all set the flames well themselves. The forest was burning.

Mirkwood was ablaze.

Grimbeorn and Jago came running out of the trees towards them, both in the form of bears once more, and they charged northwards, leading the way with powerful strides. The dwarves cast out Flame Powder behind them, like arsonist flower-girls, until the fire began to get too close.

"I think it can survive on its own now!" yelled Nori, his voice barely reaching them over the fury of the flames.

The wolves ran faster, the triplet skin-changers weaving between them. One had a scorched tail, but they all seemed to be more or less alright. But the faster they ran, the faster the fire pursued them, and Fíli's mouth went very dry at the thought that they might not actually be able to outrun the flames.

He looked over his shoulder and the breath left his lungs. Ehren and Nori looked to be only inches ahead to the flames, and their wolves' eyes were bulging in fear. Instinctively, Fíli urged Sokka to slow, but the wolf howled and poured on speed instead, pulling him further away.

"Nori!" he yelled, "Ehren!"

"What?"

"We're – a little – preoccupied!" bellowed Ehren, shielding his eyes with his hand. "What d'you want?"

Kíli's voice came from his side, "Eyes ahead, Fee!"

Grimacing, Fíli obeyed, and as he did he saw Jago and Grimbeorn lurch sideways. The wolves followed, and within moments they burst out of Mirkwood and into the plains of Wilderland. Beside them, the forest burnt, but the fire was not catching on the grass outside – not yet at least.

They slowed, and the wolves panted so heavily that Fíli could feel himself rising and falling with Sokka's chest. He scratched behind the wolf's ears, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I gotta admit," said Ehren, a grim smile spreading across his face. "That was kind of fun."

Huffs of laughter and agreement came from dwarf and beast alike, and Fíli found that it was his own turn to roll his eyes.

"Come," he said, though he grinned himself. "We should keep moving. There's a long way to go yet, and we don't know how long the flames will keep the orcs at bay."

Kíli gave a rather unconvincing pout. "Honestly Fee, you take the fun out of everything. All we're trying to do is outrun the blazing fires of death and _enjoy_ it."

"We can enjoy it on the move," insisted Fíli, and Grimbeorn nodded. They began to move again, more steadily and slowly, but at a decent pace.

A thrill was buzzing through Fíli, and there was on odd lightness to his chest. They had succeeded – they had actually scored a victory. Mirkwood was on fire, and they were unburned. And in a twisted, terrifying sort of way, it had been an awful lot of fun.

But as they rode, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, and Fíli glanced over his shoulder. There was a smudge on the horizon, one that he could not make out at first. He narrowed his eyes, and then they flew open, wide.

Orcs – dozens, _hundreds_ , not coming from Dol Guldur, but from the south west, from the mountains.

They were riding.

They were gaining.

And they held something, a flag that they raised up high.

The torn banner of the Beornings.

 **I hope that you enjoy that chapter, and that it didn't taper off too much to the end! It was an awful lot to think about and work out, but I think I'm glad with it now. Please, please let me know what you think – what is happening, what has happened, what will… I adore hearing from you guys, it really is fantastic!**

 **Anyways, thank you very much for reading, take care!**


	62. Chapter 62: The Road to Helm's Deep

**Hey there! I'm so sorry about missing last week's update. I've been very busy, had a birthday, and re-visited the Tolkien Exhibition in the Bodleian Library – it is absolutely phenomenal and I would highly recommend it to any of you who get a chance to go. Anyways, I am back now, and hope to get back on schedule.**

 **Thank you so much for my lovely reviews, I appreciate them so much.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Two: The Road to Helm's Deep**

Silent as the stone, Gimli watched the men before him talk. Though he tried his best not to stare, his eyes were drawn repeatedly back to Théoden. The vigour that had returned to the king with Gandalf's words had now been muted – his eyes were tinged red, and his jaw was tight. Though they were nowhere near as hunched as they had been before, his shoulders were slumped, and often he pinched his nose or closed his eyes. Gimli did not mean to stare, but the man's grief was a magnet, a collapsing mine that you could not tear your eyes from.

Théoden had not cried when Éowyn explained that Theodred was dead. His face had drained of colour and his mouth had hung ajar, but then he had closed his eyes and hung his head. In a soft voice, he had asked for details – for 'when's and 'where's and 'how's, and almost at once Éomer had taken him to the grave outside the mountain. It had been difficult – the people of Edoras were so happy to see their king among them again that they had thronged around, and Théoden had drawn a weary smile to his face. It was only when he left the city, and stood alone with Éomer, Éowyn and Gandalf before the grave of Theodred that the king began to cry. Gimli had seen it from the gates. He wished that he had not.

Now, there were no tears in Théoden's eyes, but his brow was pinched and furrowed as he listened to the tale of Gandalf and the fellowship, though they skilfully steered around the purpose of their task, and made no mention of the ring. When they had finished, Théoden's own marshals spoke, telling of the raids that had broken upon Rohan's people, and the battles that had already been fought on the borders. There were five marshals, tall lords of Rohan, alongside Éomer, and – to Gimli's mild surprise – the Lady Éowyn. From what Gimli had heard from Bard, and from the Princesses Sigrid and Tilda, it was rare for women to be given such presence in the halls of Men, especially in times of war.

"It is not a lack of respect – it is respect of a different kind," Tilda had explained, one sunny afternoon. Gimli thought that it sounded like a load of old goat turds, but that was none of his business.

"…and we are worried for Erkenbrand. Two thousand men he took to the fords of Isen, after Theodred was slain, and we have heard little from him since."

"Well, there you have it," said Gandalf, sitting back in his chair and turning to Théoden. "You are at open war with Saruman, though it has not yet been so named. What is it that you would do, my lord?"

For a long moment, Théoden did not speak. His elbows were on the table and his forehead rested in his fingers, and when he finally raised his eyes, they were clouded and dark. They roamed over the marshals and lingered on Boromir and Aragorn, and fell then to Legolas and Gimli. "I do not know," the king said slowly. "I would see Saruman destroyed for the havoc he has wrought upon our lands, and the grief he has brought to the world, yet we have not the strength to launch an attack on Isengard alone. Gondor will not come – not in time, or in numbers enough, at least."

"I wish that I could deny it, but it is true," said Boromir, rubbing his chin. "I fear that Gondor barely has the strength to hold itself. It has little to lend to others – battle has been falling upon our lands for well over a year. Yet I will stay, and fight with you."

Théoden looked rather surprised at this. "You will? You do not wish to ride to Minas Tirith?"

"I do wish it, but I will not ride away from friends in a time of need," said Boromir firmly, though he glanced at Gimli as he spoke. "I would be proud to fight for Rohan, and honoured to give my life for its people, should it come to that."

The marshals around the table let out murmurs of respect, and Théoden bowed his head. "I thank you, Lord Boromir. Your words are deeply appreciated, as is your sword. But it is only one sword, and our problem still remains. There is no way to gather a force strong enough to strike Saruman without leaving the vast majority of our people unguarded. I will not ride to war so that I might return to death and carnage, or see my people slaughtered in my absence. Yet I cannot hope to hold Edoras – should Saruman march upon us here, there will be no hope, save that of a swift death, and I will _not_ forsake the riders in the north, and in the Westfold."

With a shake of his head, the king stopped speaking, and Gimli tugged absently on his own beard. If the king had made his home in a mountain, he may not be having such problems – or maybe he would. Gimli thought of Thorin, of the defence of Erebor, and he prayed that his own people were alright. He might then have spiralled into fear for his homeland, were his thoughts not interrupted by the voice of Éowyn.

"My lord, it is true that to leave behind a force in the defence of Edoras shall only weaken the Rohirrim. Take the people of the city with you, let them take shelter in Helm's Deep. That way an attack on Meduseld will burn only our halls, and not our people, and the women might support the fighting, in what ways we can."

Éomer flashed a sharp look at his sister and she sat up a little straighter, her jaw tightening. Gimli watched in interest, and when Éomer spoke, his voice seemed a little firmer than usual.

"Indeed," he said, "it would be wise to have healers and nurses to help with the wounded, and people to cook for the soldiers."

It was subtle, but the emphasis that Éomer placed on the words 'healers' and 'nurses' and 'cooks' was just a little too strong, and it gave Gimli the sneaking suspicion that Éowyn's idea of 'supporting the fighting' involved a lot more fighting than it did supporting.

Éomer continued, "We can spare no men for such tasks. My lord Théoden, I would agree with my sister. It would sit better in my heart to see our people to the safety of Helm's Deep. That fortress has never fallen while men defend it."

Théoden nodded slowly. "I might agree, if it weren't for the road that we must take. It is not an easy path to Helm's Deep, and if we are lucky it will still take at least two days to get there. On the road we are vulnerable."

"Yet here we are more so, if we are left without an army, or the means to defend ourselves," argued Éowyn, and Théoden stared at her for a long moment. She met his eye. With a heavy sigh, the king turned to Gandalf.

"What say you, Gandalf? Which path would you choose, if the choice was yours?"

The wizard leant forward. "I think that I would agree with the Lady Éowyn, yet I warn you – if you do not leave within the day, you will be too late. Saruman has already made several moves, and in order to win this war you must catch up."

"A pleasant thought," muttered Théoden bitterly, but he nodded. "Very well. Háma – give out the order that the city must empty, and send riders out all our folk nearby. We will leave at midday, to make for Helm's Deep. When the women and children are secure we shall ride on. To Isengard."

A smile of grim satisfaction spread over Gimli's face, a look that was shared by his companions, and by Éomer and several of the lords of Rohan. But Théoden himself bore no such smile. Instead, he looked grim and thoughtful, and very, very weary. He looked as though the weight of a mountain was crashing down upon his shoulders, as though he was the last barrier against the crushing of his kingdom. Éowyn, also, looked contemplative, and a couple of the marshals let their fear show on their faces.

"Forgive me, my lord," ventured one of them, "but how are we to launch an attack on Isengard? How might we hope to claim victory over such a foe?"

"That we shall discuss when we know more of what we face. It may well be that the fight shall come to us before we even reach Orthanc. If that is the case, we will meet it all the same," said Théoden. The young marshal nodded, but he did not look reassured.

Gimli did not blame him. If Gandalf was not by his side, Gimli would not like his odds on taking on another wizard. He would not know how to fight, what tactics might be best or what strikes to avoid. Yet even without Gandalf, Gimli would march on Orthanc if he got the chance. If Nelly and Bróin were there, he would fight to the death to reach them.

Just the thought of the two young ones in Saruman's clutches was a stab in Gimli's gut, a rope burn running up his spine. He did not know who he held greater fear for – Nelly was a girl, after all, and the horrors that orcs inflicted on women were not unknown to Gimli, yet Bróin was a dwarf and no one had made any attempt to capture Gimli alive. If Bróin was dead, if Gimli had to tell Bombur that his little boy had been butchered because Gimli had not been fast enough to protect him –

A great screech and a crack rang out through the hall, and at once something cool and sticky poured out over Gimli's hand. The entire table fell silent, staring at him, and Gimli's eyes roved slowly down to the tankard in his hand. He had squeezed it so hard that the metal had buckled and broken, crushing the cup in on itself and tearing a hole in its side. It was the ale that followed over his hands, but as he watched it was joined by something warmer, something red.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "Should've watched my grip."

"Indeed," said Théoden, though his voice was light, and his raised eyebrows gave him more of a look of surprise than anything else. "You're bleeding."

Gimli glanced down at his hand and shook his head. "It's only a scratch. Again, my apologies. I'll pay for the tankard, of course."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Éomer, and Gimli saw that he was grinning. "It was an impressive feat, and the look on the face of Master Legolas is payment enough."

Gimli glanced up, and saw that the elf's face was a twisted confusion of surprise, awe, alarm and disappointment. It was quickly wiped away by a far more neutral look, and a raising of the eyebrows towards Éomer, but Gimli had to admit that it was rather funny.

"Come," said Théoden, rising. The rest of the table clamoured to their feet. "We must prepare. There are but two hours until midday, and when the sun is at its peak, we ride."

At first, Gimli thought that the king was being rather optimistic with his deadline. To gather an entire town of men and women and children within two hours, and have them ready to flee – he was not sure that it could be done. But the people of Edoras proved him wrong, and he was impressed of how quickly they prepared for flight. It seemed that they had been anticipating such a move for some time, and he saw many normal families with pre-packed bags and carts already stocked with non-perishable foods and supplies. Nevertheless, it was with worried faces and heavy hearts that the people moved, and when Théoden led his people out from their home town, the silence was heavy, and mournful.

The procession trailed slowly out of Edoras, and as he watched the tattered people carting their belongings away from their homes, Gimli wondered if this is what his own people had looked like, in centuries past. Heads bowed, bent with fear. Women with swollen bellies and ankles carrying dirty children with matted hair, men as old as the hills carrying themselves with pained grimaces. Soldiers at their sides, with jaws tightened by fear and eyes steered by suspicion. Lords riding horses in old, worn travel clothes, ladies whose frightened gazes roamed the hills. Carts loaded with the sick, wagons of food supplies that would soon become meagre. A people that had once flourished, now left to the mercy of the wild.

Gimli sighed heavily. He had been born in the safety of Ered Luin, and though he had moved to Lake Evendim for a time, he had never led the life of a nomad. Yet his parents had not forgotten the decades they had spent, homeless and penniless, wandering the world for work, and they had told him many times how lucky he was. They did not want him to forget it.

It was impossible to forget now.

To try and take his mind of things, he glanced at the woman who rode beside him. Like all the woman of Rohan, Éowyn rode with the same ease as the men, as though she had been riding horses since her birth. Many of the women were riding, as were many of the men – it seemed that in Rohan most families – even the poorest among them – owned a horse or two. Gimli guessed that between a third and half of the refugees of Edoras were riding.

Gimli looked back at Éowyn, and was struck by how deeply she reminded him of Nelly. Of course, on the surface there were similarities, like the long, blonde hair that tumbled down their backs – though Nelly's was darker, and much curlier. They both had blue eyes, but again it was not quite the same – Nelly had eyes like sapphires, deep and dark and sparkling, with more facets than could ever be counted. Éowyn's eyes were lighter, an icy blue that, while beautiful, could send a glare more piercing than Nelly could ever hope to achieve. They were both slender, and from the way that Éowyn held herself, Gimli guessed that, like Nelly, she was stronger than most of the womenfolk of her kind.

But Gimli did not think that it was the physical similarities that made him think of his missing cousin. No, there was something about the way Éowyn moved, how she watched with the eyes of a hawk and spoke in the voice of a warrior, something in the way that she refused the help that the lords offered her, and shouldered a burden herself. Something about the way he had seen her hide a sword beneath her outer skirt.

It was like watching Nelly, but a little older, and graver – far graver. Less quick to laughter, less likely to burst into song for the joy of it. More serious – perhaps that was the best way to play it. Sombre. Nelly was rarely sombre. There was a stoniness that was almost dwarven about Éowyn, a hard edge that never seemed to leave her face. It was hard to imagine such a look lingering on Nelly for long. It would inevitably be replaced by a smile or a smirk, or a frown if the occasion called for it. Unless she put effort into closing it, Nelly's face was an open book, and a book that had laughter written onto many of its pages.

Or at least, a book that had once contained laughter.

It was difficult to think of Nelly. The idea that she might be in Isengard was abhorrent, and he often had to chase his mind away from haunting him with the horrors that Saruman and his scum may be imposing on her. It was quite possible that when – if – they got her back, she would no longer be so quick to smile. Even worse was the idea that Bróin might not have even made it to Isengard – no uruk had tried to capture Gimli. If dwarves were of no use to the orcs, and Nelly had been taken, then logic demanded Bróin's blood.

Gimli shuddered, shifting in his seat to hide it from the elf. Legolas glanced over his shoulder, and for a moment Gimli feared that he was about to be asked if he was alright. Instead, Legolas smiled.

"I am going to walk a while."

"Alright," grumbled Gimli. "Don't know why you're telling me…"

"Because I am about to leave you alone on a horse," said Legolas lightly, and then he sprang to the ground, landing nimbly on his feet and leaving Gimli alone, bareback, astride a beast three times his size.

"Curse you!" Gimli growled, but Legolas simply laughed, and disappeared into the crowd. "No good woodland sprite," muttered Gimli, adjusting his position and holding tentatively to the horse's reins. He felt that he was very precariously placed, and was not quite sure how to fix it – Legolas had again refused a saddle, but had borrowed from the Rohirrim a light leather halter, that Gimli would be able to steer, should he have to. Yet Gimli did not trust the large, feisty horse, and he was unsure if the signals that he knew for pony riding would carry over.

As if to spite him, the horse jolted, and Gimli held on tighter with his legs, but then the horse stopped abruptly, and Gimli was flung against its neck. Swearing, he threw his arms around the beast's neck, and it rose onto its hind legs.

At once, a slender hand grabbed the halter and pulled it with a firm command, and the horse stomped, and then stood still.

"Are you alright, Master Gimli?" asked Éowyn, wrapping the rein around her wrist, and Gimli blushed right up to his eyebrows.

"Quite alright, thank you, my lady. That was entirely deliberate."

Éowyn laughed, and the stony edge to her face cracked open, letting out a light that had been fully hidden by sombre eyes and a tight jaw. Her resemblance to Nelly grew at once, and she looked far younger. Gimli smiled.

"To tell the truth," he said, "I'm far more used to ponies. Trusty little things, ponies. My Odo would've marched into Khazad-dûm itself, had I let him."

"Odo is the name of your pony?"

"Aye. Why do you ask?"

Éowyn frowned thoughtfully, and then glanced up at Gimli. "In the past I was led to believe that dwarves cared little for the animals that they kept. Some believe that your kind do not even name those creatures that are in their service, yet you do not seem so cold to me. Odo seems a rather affectionate name."

Gimli snorted. "Aye, it is – Odo's a plucky beast and I love him for it. It seems many think dwarves care nothing for animals, but we are not unfeeling. Despite what the elves would have you believe, we aren't made out of stone."

Éowyn glanced up, concern alight in her eyes. "I have offended you – forgive me, Master Gimli-"

Gimli laughed, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "Not at all, my lady. No, I've seen enough 'culture clashes' to know when someone means harm, or insult. I grew up with Kíli Baggins, after all."

Her brow furrowed again, this time in concentration. "I know that name…"

"He is the youngest prince of Erebor, and my cousin," said Gimli proudly. "He has travelled through Rohan many times, though I don't know that he's ever come to Edoras."

Éowyn shook her head. "I don't believe he has, it is too far south to be a stop on the way to the Gap. He is the dwarf that was raised by the holbytla, is he not?"

Gimli blinked, and stared down at her. "By the what?"

Éowyn blushed slightly, and she smiled again. This time, it was a far meeker look, almost sheepish, and she paused a moment before she spoke again. "Forgive me – your word is hobbit, isn't it?"

"Aye," said Gimli, his eyebrows raised. "What did you say?"

"Holbytla," she repeated. "That is the name that our stories give to them – stories of a people half as tall as a man, who can disappear in the blink of an eye and will tie your hair to your bedposts while you sleep unless you leave out a bowl of milk."

Gimli let out a bark of laughter, thinking of Nelly, Merry and Pippin. "Aye, I know a few hobbits that might tie your hair in knots if you crossed them, and they are easily appeased by food."

As he laughed, Éowyn relaxed slightly, and her smile grew. "When I was a girl, my cousin and uncle went out to Erebor, and when they returned, Theodred told Éomer and I that he had seen the holbytlan, and that they were no bigger than he was, at the time. I did not believe him, not until my uncle told me that he was telling the truth. Even then, I thought that they were teasing me for the longest time. Theodred was always trying to make me fall of fairy-tales." She trailed off, but a fond smile lingered on her face, even as grief darkened her eyes.

"Kíli does that same, sometimes," said Gimli softly. "He loves to pull pranks on people, or trick you into believing things that were never true. A very good storyteller, is our Kíli."

"Please," said Éowyn, looking up at him. "Tell me more of your family, and your people. I have not met a dwarf in person before."

"Really?" Gimli grinned, the idea of a distraction filling him with joy. "Well, in that case, listen up lassie – the first lesson is that dwarves love their pets, and their work-animals. You should see the wolves of Erebor-"

"The wolves?" burst out Éowyn. "I thought surely the wolves were an embellishment of Theodred's?"

"Not at all," chuckled Gimli. "Not at all – they were Beorn's, one upon a time, and Kíli befriended one of the pups. Of course. I fear he'd try to befriend even an orc, given half the chance. Anyway, after a couple of visits to the old skin-changer, the wolves accompanied us home, and decided they'd quite like to stay there. They're wicked smart – more clever than any beast you've ever laid eyes upon, and that's no exaggeration…"

With that, Gimli poured into the story of the wolves spelling out their own names, and the various escapades that he and his cousins had faced with their fury friends. He talked of the mountain goats and ponies of Erebor, and of Odo, and the other cats and dogs and ravens that called the mountain home.

The talk steered to the mountain itself, and for a long while Gimli told the Lady of Rohan of Erebor's beauty and its peoples. She listened with unwavering interest, asking questions of him here and there – especially regarding the roles that dwarven women played in society.

Gimli decided that he rather liked her company. They talked and talked, until the sun dove behind the horizon, and the cold of the night swept in. Then the party halted, and the Rohirrim set up three great campfires for their people, and a smaller one for the king and his party. Gimli watched in interest as the men set up tents – swiftly in the case of the soldiers, or with the fumbling hands of farmers, unfamiliar with such a task. Many were little more than sheets sagging off of unsteady sticks, and Gimli wondered aloud to Legolas why they did not simply sleep beneath the stars.

"They are less hardy than you or I," said Legolas, gazing sadly at a women with a child at her breast and another on her hip. She was inching closer and closer to one of the campfires, and shivering as she tugged a shawl tighter around the older child. "Exposure is a far greater threat. A cold night rain could take the life of even a healthy new-born."

"I suppose," Gimli muttered, staring at the baby. A cold night rain could not take the life of a dwarven infant – not unless it was heavy with hail or snow, or the child was already sickly. While nowhere near as tough as their adult kin, dwarven children had little to fear from exposure. Gimli thought of Dis, and sighed heavily. He wondered if there was any real chance for her baby, or if it would just be another little casualty of this great, bloody war.

"Come," said Legolas, putting a hand on Gimli's shoulder. "The food is ready."

The night was subdued and dark, and the threat of attack hung low above their heads, much like the sagging clouds. But the watching guards made no sound, and come morning the camp was untouched. There had been no attack, and no rain, and as the people of Rohan packed up their camp, there was a greater sense of hope in the air. Though weary, the people moved with more purpose, and for the most part their faces were lighter, more optimistic.

Once again, Gimli found himself riding behind Legolas, yet today they were closer to the front of the group – riding with Éomer and Aragorn and Boromir, just ahead of the king. Few rode before them, save the scouts, and the people stretched out behind them for what seemed like miles. In stark contrast to the day before, Gimli did not speak much in the morning. Instead, he listened to the talk of the Men, and particularly to Aragorn and Éomer. Though they had been strangers but days ago, they spoke like old friends, discussing tactics and battle, but also other things, sharing tales of laughter and dances and fairer days.

Boromir was quieter, his face clouded and eyes darkened by thoughts that he did not share, and Gimli suspected that he did not wish to talk at all – that the only reason he rode ahead was to avoid riding beside Gandalf. Despite the wizard's words, Boromir still was more subdued than before, and quicker to hang his head or avert his gaze, especially when Gandalf was around. It seemed he felt guilt all the more, then, and Gimli wondered just how long it would last.

They were coming up to midday, and drawing near to the mountains, when Legolas sat up in the saddle, and called to Éomer.

"There is a rider approaching," he said. "A scout, or a herald, he seems. He is clad in the armour of your people."

Éomer glanced at the elf, and then squinted at the horizon. A few moments later, the small speck of a rider came into view, and the man sat back in his saddle, raising his eyebrows. "I am impressed. Thank you, Master Legolas. I see why you keep him around."

Aragorn grinned, and Gimli patted Legolas' shoulder.

"Aye, he has his uses," he said, and he could practically hear Legolas rolling his eyes.

They rode forward to meet the rider, with Théoden and Gandalf also pulling away from the main group to come behind, with several guards around them. When he reached them, the rider doubled over, gasping for breath, and then raised his head, the whites of his eyes visible through his helmet.

"Lord Éomer!" he cried, desperation and exhaustion straining his voice. "Lord Éomer, you must turn back! You come, at last, but it's too late – nothing good has befallen us since Theodred passed – the riders were scattered, and Isengard has been emptied – thousands, tens of thousands – orcs and goblins and men – we were driven back over the fords yesterday, so _many_ dead – in the night we were attacked again! Erkenbrand led three thousand men toward Helm's Deep, but no word has been heard from him, and our people are scattered. It is hopeless – go back to Edoras! Go back, before the wolves of Isengard devour it!"

Before Éomer could reply, Théoden rode silently through his guard, and between Aragorn and Éomer, and the rider's mouth dropped open.

"The Last of the Eorlingas have rode forth," said Théoden, "and we will not return without a flight. Our people we have brought with us – if the wolves of Isengard fall upon Edoras they will be disappointed. To Helm's Deep we ride, and then onwards, if we can."

"My Lord!" cried the rider, all but falling from his horse and bowing low. "Forgive me, I did not know that you had come."

"I have," said Théoden kindly. "There is nothing to forgive, Ceorl. When you rode out from Edoras I was in no state to ride to war, yet a western wind has shaken the sleep from me. My eyes are open, and I will not tarry any more. We ride to secure the safety of our children, and to fight for our place in this world. Do not fear, your children are among us."

"Thank you," breathed Ceorl, his voice shaking. "Thank you, Théoden King. Thank you!"

Gandalf rode forward, his eyes fixed on the horizon. Then, he turned to Théoden. "It is too late to march much further. Fly to Helm's Deep, as fast as can be. The fight will come to you. I will return when I may. Now, Shadowfax, we must ride!"

Without another word, the horse and the wizard sprang forward, shooting towards the north so fast that the disappeared over the hills in mere moments. Théoden nodded at Éomer.

"Let the Riders know that we are picking up the pace – we shall go as fast as possible, without alarming the people. Remember that we still have children among us, and the elderly and ill."

Éomer nodded, and began to ride down the line, throwing instructions as he went, and the group rode onward at a slightly brisker pace. As the day wore on, Aragorn and Boromir seemed convinced that they were making good time, but they still going slower than a dwarven troop would travel. It began to gnaw on the back of Gimli's mind, and often he looked over his shoulder at the expanse of people trailing behind. Their process seemed so slow, and their enormous party looked so exposed.

They were vulnerable, and a deep sense of dread curled around Gimli's gut. It seemed inevitable that they would be attacked, inescapable that an ambush would fall down upon them, but by the time night fell there had been not a single sound of an enemy. As they built the camp, Gimli's apprehension grew, and that night he did not sleep a wink. Instead, he lay awake, listening for orcs that he never heard, watching the darkness for mercenaries that ever appeared. He was still awake when the sun lit the horizon, and his eyes burnt from the watching as he scoured the landscape.

They rode on, and even when Legolas was on watch, Gimli did not quite feel safe. They could not transport so many from Edoras to Helm's Deep without some form of attack – that would be too easy, and nothing of their quest had been easy so far. It could not be.

But it seemed that it was – to Gimli's amazement, just after noon they crested a large hill, and saw the fortress of Helm's Deep carved into the mountain only a few miles away. A great, natural vale that Aragorn named the 'Deeping Coomb' stretched out before it, sheltered by arms of the mountain, and halfway through the vale was a great ditch. Beyond that, there was an outer wall, and behind that the fortress itself.

"Not bad, for men-folk," he muttered to Legolas who smiled slightly. Boromir twisted in his saddle and shook his head a little, but he smiled as he spoke.

"It is said that the men of Gondor made this fortress long ago, and that they were helped by the hands of giants."

"Giants?" said Gimli, his mind flying northwards up the Misty Mountains, to the stone-giants that wrought havoc on stormy nights. "I'd rather not meet any of those, thank you very much. Talking trees were quite enough."

They rode onwards, into the Deeping Coomb and then forward again to Helm's Dike – the great ditch that split the valley. Rag-tag groups of desperate riders joined them from the north and the west, trickling into the safety of the fortress and watching with wide eyes the procession of soldiers and civilians that would be coming to join them. Somehow, they passed through the dike without incident, and through the gate without so much as a growl from an orc. Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas and Éomer kept their horses aside by the doorway as Háma and an older lord named Gamling led the people through the fortress.

"The women and children will be sheltered in the caves," Éomer explained to the hunters, as they watched the people pour inside. "The elderly, and the ill, also. Any who can fight will be organised, and armed."

"Including the women?" wondered Gimli aloud, and Éomer looked sharply at him.

"I beg your pardon?" he said, and Gimli gave a light shrug.

"You said all who could fight. Some women are handy with a sword, and may want to fight. Will they be armed?" Gimli was careful to keep his tone light and even. Boromir had said weeks ago that men had very different views on respecting and protecting women, and he had no intention of irking Éomer or starting a fight. He was simply curious.

He wondered if he had indeed overstepped when Boromir and Aragorn went very still, and Éomer stared at Gimli with a slightly narrowed gaze.

"You have been speaking to my sister," he said eventually.

"Aye." Gimli saw no point in denying it. "But I was speaking more from my own experience. There are some among the women of Erebor who take up arms in times of war, and the women of Dale are often fiercer than their men. King Bard's daughter Tilda is the Commander of their Cavalry. I only wondered if Rohan had shield-maidens."

Éomer sighed, shaking his head a little. "There are very few, but they do exist, and some will fight, I expect. Yet there are some whose duties lie elsewhere. Éowyn, for example, is needed to lead our people when the king and I are at war. Besides, I would have all shield-maidens in the caves, to form a last defence for those who cannot fight, if all goes ill today."

"Does Tilda truly lead the cavalry of Dale?" asked Legolas curiously, apparently oblivious to the deeper conversation going on. "Is she not still a child?"

Gimli snorted. "I thought you and Bard were friends, laddie?"

"We are," said Legolas, sounding a little affronted. "But it is hard to track the lives of men. They grow faster than shoots in spring, and to men a year seems a long time. I have not visited Dale in some time."

Grinning, Gimli shook his head, enjoying the opportunity to tease the elf. "You need to get out of the woods more. Tilda's thirty-one, she's got four bairns of her own, now."

Éomer's contemplative frown deepened. "But does she not feel selfish, putting herself in such danger now that she is a mother?"

Gimli shrugged. "Do fathers? You may say it is different, but I do not think so. Her husband is a craftsman, a carpenter, I think, and he knows less of sword-play than a two-year-old elf. When war strikes, it is he who cares for the children, and waits for his wife to return. If something were to happen to Princess Tilda, her children would still have their father."

Éomer did not look convinced. "And what of her father, the king? He is happy with that?"

"No," admitted Gimli, "but he respects that it is her choice."

Éomer rubbed his chin. "That I understand, though I don't think I could do it. I would rather see Éowyn loathe me than I would see her dead, or scared by the horror of battle. She is my sister, and under my protection, and I could not allow her to walk into harm's way."

"I can see that," said Gimli. "I expect she might see it too, one day. But I wouldn't hold my breath, laddie."

Éomer snorted, and then sighed, heavily. "I won't. I won't…"

A comfortable silence fell over them, accompanied by an easy knowledge that they would agree to disagree. Gimli watched, barely able to believe it, as the last of the people of Rohan were herded into the fortress, and the doors were shut and barred behind them.

They were in Helm's Deep.

They had made it.

 **There you are, I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Sorry about the delay, I do hope that the next chapter will be up sooner. So – why do you think the evacuation went so smoothly? What do you think happened to the Beornings? Where are Frodo and Sam? Are Nelly and Bróin resorting to yodelling to keep away the boredom? Please do let me know what you think, I truly love hearing from you!**

 **Thank you for reading.**


	63. Chapter 63: World On Fire

**First things first – again I apologise for the lack of update last week. I have been very, very busy and rather tired, and I decided to take a little break from writing rather than give you a terrible chapter last week. I _should_ (touch wood) be able to update regularly again before too long, though I am leaving for a holiday this weekend, so we'll have to see how it goes. **

**Anyhow, thank you so much for the lovely reviews I received for the last chapter. They mean so much to me and I truly appreciate them! As ever, please forgive any typos here, and I hope you enjoy the chapter! It's named after the awesome Les Friction song 'World on Fire' which quite sums up the moon of the latter half, I think.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Three: World on Fire**

Merry thought that it was rather safe to say that Denahi was not over-fond of ents. Though he stopped wiggling in Treebeard's arms early into the journey, if Merry stopped touching him at any given moment, Denahi would whine and tense, until the hobbit leant down to stroke his ears, or petted the wolf's back with his toes. It made the journey through the forest seem much longer, and though Pippin was enthralled by Treebeard's stories, Merry found it harder to concentrate. Especially when shifting a little could cause his wolf to panic. He sighed. It was exhausting being the oldest.

However, he had Pippin and he had Denahi, and he was not hungry or thirsty or cold. He had Treebeard, and he felt safe, and Merry would not ask for more than that.

As dawn began to dance down through the thin ceiling of trees, they came to a large clearing. It appeared quite suddenly – one moment the trees were thick, and close, and the next they were standing in an open space as large as the main square of Dale, a space that was almost perfectly round. In the centre stood a large, grey stone, covered in a thick blanket of moss. Treebeard approached it with the same, slow purpose that he applied to everything else, and Merry found himself holding his breath.

Gently, Treebeard shifted Pippin over to the same arm that held Merry and Denahi, and raised his free hand to his mouth, cupping his fingers into a horn and letting out a loud call.

Low and rumbling and impossibly loud, the sound trembled up from the ground right through Merry from head to toe, and Denahi whined, pressing his ears against his neck. He began to growl, deep in his throat, and then Merry saw them.

One by one, there were ents walking out from the forest, and beside him, Pippin's jaw dropped open. There were more than Merry could ever have imagined, each more strange than the one before it. He had expected them to look similar to Treebeard, at least in the same way that two men or two dwarves looked similar, but the ents were as different as rabbits and wolves.

Some had a look of oak about them, an old, ancient sturdiness, while others were taller, more lithe, and brought to mind a willow waving in the breeze. Some looked to be in their prime, strong and smooth-skinned, with a greater alertness in their eyes, and others were gnarled and ancient, seeming almost as old as Treebeard. Merry noticed that there were no children, no saplings, and his heart sank slightly. Treebeard had told him the story of the entwives while Pippin slept, and Merry did not hold out much hope that they had survived. They went west, Treebeard said, and much of the West was destroyed when Sauron had been at full strength, back in the old days. Merry knew quite a lot about it – he had ever been fascinated by the ruins and old, overgrown roads that they passed on the way to Erebor, and he enjoyed seeking out old tomes in the library that might tell him what once had been.

Erebor's library had an awful lot of history books, and it had surprised Merry's parents just how much literature the dwarves had collected on matters that did not concern them. Yet as Balin had pointed out, while they were secretive of their own customs and communities, dwarves had never been shy to learn from others, nor uninterested in learning about others.

They even had some books on ents, though they were few and far between, and the only one that Merry had ever come across depicted monsters with great hands that crushed the skulls of dwarves in one strike. His childhood book of tales that Kíli had gifted him painted a far nicer, gentler picture, but that had been purchased in Esgaroth, where men thought of ents as gentle giants from fairy-tales.

Merry was inclined to believe that they were closer to truth than the dwarves, though it was clear that Denahi was still very uncomfortable. He whined at each new arrival, and his claws began to dig into Treebeard's arm as they were surrounded by almost four dozen ents. Their voices washed over Merry, and tumbled around him, and it was like floating underwater, weightless, as sounds blurred away into the waves. He could not understand a single word that they said – nor could he in fact distinguish which sounds might actually be words. Often the rumbling voices of the ents would seem to go on forever, unbroken by words or sentences. There was a musicality there that enthralled him for hours, but the novelty began to wear away as the sun waxed above them.

Noon was blazing down upon them, almost uncomfortably warm, when Denahi finally had enough. He howled, and wriggled frantically, his claws scrabbling against Treebeard's arms as he threw himself around, unappeased by Merry's hand on the back of his neck.

"Oh!" said Treebeard, startled, and he looked down. "I had almost forgotten – you are hasty folk." He slowly bent towards the ground, and Denahi sprang down so quickly that he almost stumbled. His claws scrambled for purchase on the ground and he rose on somewhat wobbly legs, staring up distrustfully at the ents around him. Ears still pressed flat against his neck, he strode to the great stone, and cocked his leg.

Merry felt his face burn bright red and he opened his mouth, but even as he called out, Denahi urinated on the ent's large meeting stone. Pippin snorted beside him, and Merry punched his arm, turning quickly to Treebeard.

"Sorry!" he said. "He didn't mean any disrespect, honest!"

A different rumble ran through the clearing, and after a moment Merry realised that it was laughter.

"There is no ent alive who has not become the toilet of an unassuming dog," said an old ent with silver skin. His voice was like paper, soft and thin and slightly crinkled, and his face was crinkled too – crinkled up into a smile.

"I was forgetting how frustrating it is to listen to talk you do not understand," Treebeard said to Merry and Pippin. "I have told your names to the council, and we have agreed that you are not goblin spies. We have not got much further than that, I am afraid, for it takes a long time to say anything in entish. You may walk about in the dingle, it is quite safe. There is a deep well, and the water is good for drinking."

Disappointment flickered through Merry – he had hoped that there might be more resolution than this after hours of talk – but he did not let it show on his face. Despite his certainty that the ents were not vicious by nature, Merry thought that they looked awfully strong, and he would not want to be thought a spy by any of them.

"Thank you," he said politely. "Come on, Denahi, Pippin."

Pippin nodded, offering a smile and a wave to the ents as he turned, and followed Merry from the clearing. They walked a little way through the forest, following the direction that Treebeard had pointed out, and before too long they found the well. The water was cool and clear, and tasted fantastic, and for a little while Merry and Pippin were content to chat with their feet in the little stream that ran by the base of the well. But Denahi prowled through the trees, circling them, a low growl in his throat.

Sighing, Merry held out his hand. "Denahi, come." The wolf looked purposefully at him, and shook his head, but Merry lowered his voice and raised his eyebrows. "Come."

Grumbling, Denahi trotted over, butting his head against Merry's hand.

"That's it," he soothed. "What's wrong, 'eh? Is there something out there, or is it just the ents?"

Denahi whined and grumbled, and Merry smiled, relaxing a little. "Just the ents?"

Denahi huffed and nodded, and Pippin chuckled.

"They're friends, Denahi," he said pointedly. "You're just upset because they're sticks you can't fetch."

At once, Denahi's ears pricked up, and his head lifted from Merry's lap. Merry narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Fetch?"

Denahi yapped like an excited dog, and sprang backwards, his tail suddenly wagging as he stuck his backside in the air. Rolling his eyes, Merry stood up and stretched for a moment, before stooping to seize a stick from the ground. Denahi bounced up and down like a mountain goat, a desperate plea for distraction in his eyes. Merry threw the stick as hard as he could through the trees, and Denahi shot after it like an arrow. Seconds later, he was skidding to a halt at Merry's feet, tail wagging, and the stick firmly held in his mouth. Before Merry could take it, Pippin dove down and snatched it, waving it up in the air and dancing out of Denahi's reach.

"I thought you were supposed to be resting!" Merry cried, grinning as Pippin ran and dodged Denahi, before charging in a wrestling contest that he would only win by Denahi's grace. The wolf and the hobbit tumbled over each other on the dry ground, until Merry threw another stick and Denahi shot off after it.

"I could've had him," protested Pippin.

"You're both exhausted," said Merry, shaking his head as Denahi pressed a now slobbery stick into his hand. "I don't think either of you should be wrestling. Or playing fetch."

Denahi whined, and Merry conceded, throwing the stick again.

Pippin folded his arms. "It's like the mud-fight after goblin town. We need this, Merry. It's cathartic."

"Bilbo said the mud-fight was a terrible idea. He's felt guilty about it for years."

"Bilbo's felt guilty about a lot of silly things. Kíli said it was one of the best games of his life."

Merry had no real desire to argue any further. Neither Pippin nor Denahi would over-exert themselves again under his watch, but it would not hurt to play for a little longer. Again and again, Merry threw the stick, or ran from the wolf, or chased him, and they played until Denahi was panting, and the dark of the evening brought a chill with it. Then, they sat again by the well, and Denahi curled up beside Merry's, laying his head in the hobbit's lap and letting his eyes slowly close.

"Do you think they've decided anything yet, Merry?" asked Pippin, a nervous edge to his voice. Merry looked at his cousin carefully. The carefree, playful ease that had occupied Pippin's face all day was cracking, and his eyebrows were furrowed in worry.

"I don't know," Merry admitted. "Chances are they've only just finished saying 'good morning'. Why?"

Pippin shrugged, staring down at his feet. "It feels like we're running not of time. I don't know why, or what will happen if time does run out, but I'm afraid all the same."

"Me too," Merry murmured. "I don't know what's going to happen."

Pippin sighed, and then he looked up. "Treebeard!"

Sure enough, when Merry looked up he saw the ent entering the clearing, with his oddly quiet footsteps. When he caught sight of the slumbering wolf, Treebeard smiled, and spoke quietly.

"Well, my young hobbits, it has been decided."

"What has been decided?" asked Pippin quickly.

"Don't be so hasty," said Treebeard, but his eyes were sparkling with a fierce fire. "The ents are marching as one – and perhaps for the last time, for we will march to danger, and delivery. The ents are going to march on Isengard."

* * *

Horror swelling in his heart, Kíli watched the army on the horizon grow closer. He opened his mouth to yell a frantic order to run when he saw something and stopped. There was a solitary figure racing towards them, someone who had been hidden before by the swooping hills and crags of the land, a small, desperate soul trying desperately to reach them first. It was a boy – a child of no more than thirteen years old, and he was running so fast that his legs blurred beneath him. Terror was carved into his face, and there was blood smeared all over him, and soot on his face.

"Caleb," breathed Grimbeorn, darting forward. In moments, Caleb tumbled into his arms, deep, rasping breaths heaving his entire body as he tried desperately to speak. Now little more than a mile away, the army stopped, and stood very still.

"Breathe, child, breathe!" said Jago quickly, but he put a hand on Grimbeorn's arm. "Quickly, brother – five minutes and they will be upon us."

"Run!" gasped Caleb, his eyes painfully wide. "Run, Grimbeorn, run!"

"Breathe, Caleb," ordered Grimbeorn, though his voice shook. "What happened?"

Caleb moaned, closing his eyes, though his mouth hung open, desperately trying to bring in more air. After three eternal seconds, he began to speak, his voice hoarse and trembling. "We – we – did not get… did not get far… did not get…to start the fires… uruk-hai, uruk-hai!" His voice rose to a cry, and Grimbeorn shook him.

"Caleb! What happened?" he demanded, his eyes flickering up to the army on the horizon. "Why aren't they moving?"

"Message," sobbed Caleb, "they – they wanted me… deliver a message… they, they are of Isengard… so many, so many – we were… outnumbered… they _killed_ everyone! Everyone, they're dead, they're dead!"

"Thana?" Grimbeorn breathed, his eyes widening and his grip tightening. "Thana-"

"Gone!" whimpered Caleb, tears running down the filth on his face. "She… gone… Everyone's gone."

Grimbeorn's face lost all colour, and his brow crumpled as tears sparkled in his own eyes. "Gone?"

Caleb sobbed, grabbing weakly at Grimbeorn's arm. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry… there were so many of them, so many and – and – we killed a hundred, but – it was too much. Thana – her head-" The boy moaned, kneading his fists into his eyes. "Run, please, please run!"

Sorrow hurtling through his body, Kíli tore his eyes from Grimbeorn to glance at Jago. The giant skin-changer was upright, and his mouth was hanging slightly ajar. His eyes were glazed over, and he looked dazed, as though he was caught in a dream that he did not understand. But beside him, Grimbeorn was wearing his grief on his face, and he shook Caleb slightly again.

"Tell me, quickly," he said, his voice thick with tears. "What was this message? How did you get away?"

"They – they let me go-" Caleb began to rock back and forth a little. "They caught me, and Aldwyn and Errol, and when – when everyone else – when everyone else was – was it was over – they asked, they asked us who was fastest." The boy's eyes squeezed shut tighter, and Kíli heard a horn blare somewhere in the distance. "Errol – he, he spat in their faces, he – he said that I was f-fastest – and they stabbed him, and then they killed Aldwyn and – and they told me to run – to run and tell my lord – tell him the Isengarders are coming – that our lands will burn and our people will fall – unless – unless-"

"You might want to hurry this up," Nori called warningly. "They're getting ready to move!"

"Unless we gave them – gave them dwarves – dead or, or alive and – and if we hand over Bilbo Baggins – then – then we will be spared. And then he told – told me to run – and I ran, and I ran, but I was not quick enough."

"No," interrupted Grimbeorn, shaking his head. "No, Caleb, you did well. Do you know if it was just your party, or if the others are caught as well?"

"Just – just us – that I know…" Caleb shook his head, and a sigh of relief and guilt left Kíli's lips. Even if Thana and her twenty warriors were gone, that did not condemn the other lighting parties, or those who had fled before.

His parents may yet be safe.

Grimbeorn nodded. "Let's go, now."

"Here," said Bragi, holding out his arms. "You will be faster as a bear, Grimbeorn, the lad can ride with me. I've got him."

Grimbeorn nodded, passing Caleb over. He was taller than Bragi by at least a foot, but the way he crumpled on the back of the wolf made Caleb look even younger.

But before he could turn, there was a great growl, and Kíli looked quickly at Jago. The man had finally broken out of his daze, and his eyes burnt with fury, boring into Grimbeorn with an intensity that frightened Kíli.

"You are running?" he snarled. "They killed Thana! They killed your sister – we stand and fight!"

"No," said Grimbeorn, shaking his head. "No, we must leave."

"It's us they want," argued Ehren. "We'll hold them off-"

" _No,"_ insisted Grimbeorn. "This is not a debate."

"They killed your sister!" roared Jago, and Kíli saw that his eyes were flickering between those of a man and those of a bear. "I will kill them! I will kill all of them, I will rip them limb from limb and-"

"Orphan your son!" Grimbeorn roared back, shoving Jago hard. "If you go that way, if you take on an army alone you will leave Aeron with no parents!"

Jago let out an animalistic bellow and lurched towards the army, but Grimbeorn grabbed him, wrapping his arms around Jago even when the older man began to change. It was like nothing Kíli had ever seen – Jago seemed trapped between forms, his fur growing and receding, fangs lengthening and shortening – and Kíli was terrified. Luno gave a frightened whine and stepped backwards, and Kíli was too afraid to halt him.

"She is my sister!" yelled Grimbeorn. "My _sister_ – you think I don't care? We will have vengeance, we will, but not like this. We cannot lose you, too! Aeron cannot lose you too."

A final howl tore from Jago's throat, and then he stepped back, shoving Grimbeorn off of him. "We better have revenge. I swear-"

"We will, but now we run. We will fight another day."

"But-" Ehren began to protest, but a sharp cry from Fíli cut him off.

"They're moving!"

"Go!" ordered Grimbeorn, his eyes blazing. "This is a _direct_ order – run."

They ran, Grimbeorn and Jago changing on the move. As a bear, Grimbeorn let out a mighty roar that shook the trees, and Kíli grabbed what was left of his fuel, flinging it out it behind him. He saw the others do the same, saw the uruk-hai begin to close the distance –

He threw down a match.

The grass behind him caught at once, flames shooting three feet high and licking at their heels. With a howl, Luno pushed faster, his tongue lolling from his mouth, and Kíli swallowed.

"You can do it," he promised, scratching behind Luno's ears even as he nudged him to go faster. "Good boy, there's a boy, keep going. Keep going!"

He heard the clamour of the uruk-hai behind him, the swell of voices spewing hatred and rage into the smoke filled air, and he knew that they had seen – or maybe even reached – the flames. Kíli glanced over his shoulder, and his heart hammered against his ribs. They were close now – they were very close. He had no idea how they travelled so fast, but their front-line were trying to ride the wargs through the flames. The flames that were but a hundred feet away from Kíli.

"Hurry!" he pressed, his fingers curling around Luno's fur. "Hurry, Luno! They're coming!"

But they were not – the flames had halted them, and the next time Kíli turned it was to see the uruk-hai going the long way around, trying to avoid the hottest of the flames. Through the haze of orange fire, he could see the dark mounds of wargs burning in its depths.

"It's working!" he yelled, scrambling in his pocket for accelerant. There was only a small handful left, a couple of loose grains of spark powder, but he threw them out behind him, tossing a match down after them. Again, his aim was true, and the grass sprouted orange leaves of flame that sprang up towards the sun, but there was less this time. The fire was smaller, tamer, and Nori yelled out what Kíli was afraid of hearing.

"We're outta powder! Go faster!"

Letting out a howl of discontent, Luno shot forward, edging faster, faster, and Kíli shot a glance over his shoulder. Despair climbed up his throat, and he bent down low, trying to make himself more aerodynamic. He did not know if it was helping, but it was the only thing that he could do.

Ahead of them, he saw the woods, and his heart leapt. Grimbeorn could get them through the woods, he could loose the uruk-hai there –

But then Kíli's heart sank again, his hope drowned by his own design. There were people and animals, twenty or thirty of them, streaming out towards the plains, and the north.

Fleeing flames that were devouring the trees of southern Mirkwood. They looked over their shoulders, and Kíli heard their horror in shrieks and howls as they saw the orcs, and the group they pursued. Some hesitated, and Kíli met the eyes of a man astride a large horse. He was turning, as if to ride back, but Kíli waved his hand and bellowed as loud as he could.

"Move, move! Run!"

Grimbeorn roared beside him, and the hesitaters turned, fleeing before them with twice the speed they had used before. That meant that three of the four lighting parties were accounted for – Grimbeorn's group, the south-western group, and Thana's group. Kíli pursed his lips and took a deep breath, doing everything in his power not to think of little Aeron, and what he would say when he found out that his mama was dead.

There was one group still missing – those who had gone straight west, and with any luck they were yet to face the uruk-hai of Isengard. They had to be at least two days' travel away, and the refugees even more so. Bilbo and Amad should have reached the crossroads now. They should be safer.

They might yet survive.

It did not look like Kíli would be so lucky. Every time he looked over his shoulder, the army seemed closer, and to his horror they began to fire arrows from the backs of their wargs. And they were close enough to hit their mark.

A shaft struck one of the triplets in the back of the head, and at once the fox crumpled to the ground. The other two shrieked, and one stopped to tug at its sibling's body. A lump grew in Kíli's throat as the other fox dropped back, pulling the surviving sibling away from the dead with its teeth, until they both gathered the wits to run. Kíli saw Bragi squeeze his eyes shut, and look away from the dead fox. He was lagging slightly, Koda struggling beneath the extra weight of Caleb. As if he was reading Kíli's thoughts, Fíli dropped back. Sokka nipped at Koda's heels, chasing him faster, and an arrow shot through the sky, and Fíli was flung flat against the wolf's back.

"Fíli!" Kíli screamed, his heart stopping dead in its tracks. Desperately, he tugged at Luno, but the wolf did not slow. "Stop, stop - Fee – Fíli!"

"Keep going!" Fíli yelled, sitting up.

Sitting up.

Relief soared through Kíli so strongly that it replaced the air in his lungs, and for a moment he could not breathe. There was a red streak across Fíli's face, and blood dribbled down from it, but he was alive. He was alive.

Another hail of arrows fell down upon them, and two horses hit the ground. Their riders scrambled to their feet, falling quickly to the back of the group, where one was felled by an arrow in the back. Quick as lightening, Jago turned and loped back, grabbing the other runner and throwing him onto his own back.

A wolf fell, and then another, and then Luno was vaulting over the corpse of a girl that Kíli had met in the caves – a girl who had been shot straight from her horse. She had been fifteen, and she had a little brother.

Another horse fell, and even as Grimbeorn grabbed at its rider, an arrow burst through her neck, and her body went limp in his arm. With an agonised roar that shook the ground, Grimbeorn laid her down and ran on.

A screech, louder than any Kíli had ever heard, gave its reply, and then a great eagle swept from the sky, seizing the first skin-changers it could get its talons on – the two surviving fox triplets. Up it soared, and more swept down, but the arrows were still flying, and the orcs grew closer. One eagle was shot straight from the sky, and the wolf that it held in its grasp lay still beneath its corpse.

But the eagles made no move to flee. They continued to grab at the Beornings, many of whom changed into human form to get a better grasp on the eagle's backs. Taking a deep breath, Kíli laid down on Luno ,making himself a smaller target for the orcs, and easier for the eagles to grasp – and almost immediately one did, its talons painfully tight around his chest. The ground fell away beneath him, and with several swift beats of the eagle's wing they were up. Higher and higher they flew, and Kíli watched with tears stinging his eyes as his kin raced through the corpses below. Fíli and Nori were grabbed by two eagles in quick succession, and Bragi and Caleb were already aloft, and higher up than Kíli. But when an eagle opened it talons for Ehren an arrow shot straight through its chest, and it crashed into Ehren and Kanna, knocking them to the ground.

"No!" Kíli screamed, throwing his hand out as though it could somehow, magically, reach his friend, but there was nothing he could do. He could not see if Ehren was even still moving, and the eagle bore him higher. "Ehren!"

He could not lose another friend, not again, not like this.

He saw Ehren scramble out from beneath the eagle's corpse, saw him tugging frantically on Kanna's leg, but even when he dragged her out, Kanna did not stand. Instead she whined, butting him with her head, and Ehren stood stock still. There were no more eagles. Not one more bird to lift him away – they were all already laden, or lying motionless upon the ground. There was no horse or wolf to bear him on. Ehren was alone, and the uruk-hai were almost upon him, and Kíli's throat was raw with his own screams.

"Ehren! Run!"

Ehren did not run. He looked up, and the sun fell on his face and he closed his eyes. Then he drew his sword.

"No!" Kíli howled, still reaching out hopelessly even as his other hand clutched the talons that held him. "No!"

He could hear Bragi and Fíli and Nori yelling too, but Ehren stood firm, and the uruk-hai raised their swords high above their heads.

And then Kíli was plummeting – shooting towards the earth too fast for it to be called falling – and he knew that his eagle had been hit. Terror coursed through him, wiring his jaw shut and clenching all of his muscles, and in the split second before they reached the ground, Kíli wondered if he would be killed on impact, or if he might have a chance to fight with Ehren. That would be a nobler death.

He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact, but instead there was the sound of Ehren wheezing, and the whimper of a wounded wolf, and then he was shooting upwards again. Kíli opened his eyes, and saw that somehow, the eagle that held him had grabbed both Ehren and Kanna from the ground. They were clutched rather precariously in one of the bird's feet, and now they rose much more slowly, but they rose, and the eagle turned and followed its kin northwards.

Another eagle flew towards them, and the bird carrying them spoke. "Hold on to my talons, dwarf, if you can get a good grip."

Ehren wrapped his arms around the eagle's great claws, and the other bird took Kanna in its own talons, bearing her away despite the two, hobbit sized figures huddled upon its back.

"Thank you," gasped Kíli, reaching out to squeeze Ehren's forearm even as he looked up at the bird carrying them.

He could hear Ehren beside him, breathlessly whispering over and over again. "Thank you, thank you!"

"You are welcome," said the eagle, in a voice heavy with sorrow.

Kíli swallowed, hard and peered over Luno's shoulder at the destruction and waste that lay below them. The corpses sprawled across the ground were soon swallowed in the surge of the orcs that marched forth, and Kíli looked away. Fury and guilt burnt in his gut and rose angrily up his throat. The Beornings did not deserve this – they were a peaceful people, and so many of them were so very, very young. Kíli wanted to claw the eyes out of the orcs that had attacked them, and stab the generals that ordered the attacks until even the strongest of swords would break beneath the blows.

They flew for a long, long, time, and Kíli had no way to track the hours save the waxing and waning of the sun. When night came, they were swallowed by the cold and dark of the sky, and the moon and stars were veiled. It was not until the sun bled red light onto the horizon that the eagles began to descend, landing behind a small hill close to Rhosgobel. There were around forty of them, and sixty odd survivors of the Beornings. Some were moaning, clutching at bleeding limbs or protruding arrow shafts, and others were still weeping. Some, like the surviving triplets, seemed catatonic, their eyes fixed on nothing as they rocked back and forth like a babe in a crib.

Moaning, Grimbeorn sank down to his knees and dropped his head into his hands. His white fingers tore at his long, dark hair, and he rocked back and forth slightly, like a lost child. A lump in his throat, Kíli looked at his own brother, only a few feet away. Breathing. Not bleeding. Alive, well, safe.

Thana was dead, and so was one of the triplets and nearly two dozen Beornings, and Ehren had almost been among them. That all the dwarves had survived felt almost cruel, and Kíli hung his head.

"We cannot stay," rasped a strong, coarse voice, and Kíli looked back up. It was the eagle that had borne him, and he looked exhausted. "But we cannot outrun them. They are too fast."

Kíli's stomach plummeted like a stone down a mineshaft, and Grimbeorn looked up.

"What do you mean?" said the skin-changer, his own voice almost as coarse as the eagle's. "Since when can wargs outrun the great eagles?"

"Since now," replied the eagle sombrely. "We do not know what grants these creatures such speed, but they are thrice as fast as any wolf here. They are gaining on us, and there are crebain in the skies to spy on us. If we carry you much further, we will only lead them to your more vulnerable kin. The other group of fire-lighters are nearby – they will reach us in a few minutes. That is why we have stopped here. But as for onwards, you must make a choice. Fleeing now, by wing or foot, will only bring danger further north."

"Did they make it?" demanded Grimbeorn, and Kíli held his breath. "Those who fled, did they make it, do you know?"

The eagle inclined his head. "The last of the refugees have indeed reached Mirkwood, your wife and children among them. A couple of the groups had skirmishes with rogue orcs, but there were no fatalities. Not on our side, at least."

A sigh of relief rippled out over the entire group, and Kíli felt his knees wobble beneath him. His mother and Bilbo were alright, and Vinca and Bofur and Glóin, too. They had reached safety – or at least greater safety than they had had before.

"How long until the army reaches us?" asked Grimbeorn.

"An hour, perhaps. Maybe less."

There was a shout as a young woman emerged from the trees to the right, and Kíli recognised her as the leader of the final lighting party. The rest of them were behind her, and they spilled out from the trees with gleeful grins that faded at the sight of their young chieftain, crumpled on his knees.

"What has happened?" demanded the woman. "Master Grimbeorn-"

"Thana and her party were killed," said Grimbeorn, his voice like a bow string that was far too tight to be plucked. "There are uruk-hai on our tail, from Isengard. The eagles cannot outrun them."

"There are too many of you," said the eagle. "We cannot carry you all, and we cannot evade the eyes of the crebain. We would bring the wrath of an army down upon your kin, and risk losing ourselves to the evils now dwelling in Mirkwood."

"So what are we going to do?" cried the woman, and all eyes turned to Grimbeorn. He shook his head a little, and looked at Fíli. Kíli swallowed.

"It is your call," Fíli murmured, guilt burning in his eyes so fiercely that it scalded his brother. "I am sorry – this was my plan. We should stay. See it through. You go on, take your people and go on."

"No," growled Grimbeorn, shaking his head more strongly. "No – you gave us a plan, and it might still save our children, though it won't save us. Even leaving you behind, we are too many, and we will not desert you now. You could have deserted us long ago. No. This is my call. We will stand, and we will fight. We are what, a hundred? Eighty? They might be greater in number and better armed, and they may have a speed that only devils may possess, but we will face them all the same. We are a young people, but we are free, and we have fire in our hearts, and we will _not_ let our kin go unavenged. We will stand, and we will fight, and if we die then we will die in a battle that will rend the earth and scar the sky! We will die, and our bodies will return to this land, this land that is ours by birth-right and by blood, this land that no orc may _ever_ truly own! This is our land and our fight, and we may be small – we may be hopeless – but we are Beornings, and we will give them a fight that Isengard will _never_ forget."

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Things are getting intense, but at least Bilbo and Dís' group are safe – for now. What do you guys think will happen? I would love to know!**

 **Thank you so much for reading, I'll see you next time!**


	64. Chapter 64: The Dead Marshes

**Hey there! Sorry for the delay in this chapter – I'm actually on holiday right now, and really quite busy. To make up for it, I'm uploading two chapters today for you, so I hope that you enjoy them!**

 **As ever, thank you for your lovely reviews, and please forgive my inevitable typos.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Four: The Dead Marshes**

Of all the places that he had seen in his life, Frodo hated the Dead Marshes the most. Whether that was their true name or not, Frodo did not know, but it was the name that he knew them by, and it was eerily accurate.

The bog spanned miles and miles, an immense stretch of wasteland as barren as the Barrow Downs, and there were no trees or flowers to be seen – only coarse, twisted bushes and shrubs, and weeds and stinking reeds. A foul smell lingered in the hot, damp air, and there was no real breeze to stir life into the land. Nothing moved. There were no birds and no beasts, and Frodo did not even see so much as a worm in the ground.

Yet still, there was a constant shiver dancing down Frodo's spine, an inescapable feeling of being watched.

Being watched by the corpses in the marshes.

There were so many bodies, suspended in the murky water, their eyes staring up with their sightless, milky gaze. Bodies of men and elves and orcs, endless eyes staring up through the water that had somehow preserved them – they looked as though they had only been dead a day, but Frodo imagined that they had been there since the last war. There had to have been a mighty battle here. He was glad that he had not been a part of it.

Sometimes, little flames appeared, springing up through the mist that clung to the ground, but Sméagol warned them against following the lights with a ferocity that kept both hobbits in check.

Only once was there a sign of life other themselves, but it did not come as any comfort. It came on the second day – a shriek from above that was chillingly familiar, and paralyzingly frightening.

 _"Wraiths!"_ wailed Sméagol, throwing himself against the floor as Frodo and Sam scrambled for cover. "Wraiths with _wings!"_

Heart beating up in his throat, Frodo crawled beneath one of the scratchy, thorny bushes, and pressed his hands up against his ears. The shriek of the Nazgûl rang out again, and even as the terror coursed through him, Frodo felt an odd sensation pulling at him, tugging at his gut. He should stand up – he should give the ring to the rider.

One of his hands left his ears and drifted towards his neck, and he glanced up through the thorns. A shadow was riding the sky above him, as large as a great eagle, larger even, and it was calling to him.

Just to him.

His eyes closed. The ring was singing, and it felt so right to close his hand around the cool metal and pull –

A hand closed around his wrist. "Frodo!"

Frodo gasped, jolting as his eyes opened to see Sam staring at him. Swallowing, Frodo fumbled his fingers and dropped the ring, scrambling instead for the shield around his neck. He peered up again, and as the ring called to the wraith, Frodo remembered what they had done to Fíli. What they had done to his family.

Fury burnt the weakness from Frodo's veins, and he gritted his teeth, glaring up at the Nazgûl until it flew away, back towards the west. He did not like the thought of it travelling back towards his friends, but at least it was not overhead anymore.

They waited for a few minutes, hidden by the brush and the bushes, but there was no other sign or sound of life, and so slowly, Frodo and Sam and Sméagol crept out from under the bushes.

And for what felt like the hundredth time, Frodo looked backwards. Back to the west, back the way that they had come.

Every day, Frodo had peered over his shoulder. Every day, he had looked back, wishing beyond hope to see the others behind him, to see them running to catch up, or wandering lost behind, but there was no one there.

There was never anyone there.

But Sméagol led them on, following a path that Frodo could not see, and finding solid ground where Frodo found only puddles. So far, he had proved to be a useful guide, but he and Sam seemed utterly determined not to get along.

They bickered like cruel children, trading barbed insults when their tempers grew too hot, and they sent each other scathing looks when they thought Frodo was not looking. It was exhausting, but Frodo did not know what to do about it.

It was clear that Sam did not trust Sméagol – he had made no secret of that. Every night he whispered his doubts beneath his breath, and every day his dark-ringed eyes were trained on Sméagol, and narrowed if he left their sight. Sméagol, meanwhile, had taken an intense dislike to Sam, and whined about how unfair the hobbit's gaze was.

Of course, Frodo's trust in Sam was limitless, and he did not truly trust Sméagol at all. It was hardly the perfect situation, and Gollum was hardly the guide that Frodo would have chosen for himself, but he could not bring himself to consider killing the wretched creature. So far, Sméagol had done nothing to suggest that he would go back on his word, and for now, that was enough.

Especially when, on the third day, he led them out of the marshes, and the day after that they crested a large, rocky hill, and stared down upon the Black Gates of Mordor.

"We did it," Sméagol whispered, pawing at Frodo's arm as they stared down at the gates. "We did as master asked, nice master, you says to take us to the gates, and Sméagol did, yes, yes!"

"Yes, I did," murmured Frodo. Now that he was here, he knew more than ever that he did not want to be. The gates were twice the height of the gates of Erebor, and easily three times as long. He had no idea how he was going to sneak in – this was where he had imagined Nelly and Bróin coming into their own. They had discussed ideas and theories, but their plans here were little more than sketches.

He wished that Gandalf was here.

He wished that Bilbo was here.

Frodo's eyes stung hot, and he turned his gaze away from the gates. He had to do this for Gandalf. For Bilbo. If he turned back now, he had betrayed his uncle for nothing. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, and glanced at Sam.

His friend turned, meeting his eyes with a weak smile. "If my old Gaffer or Bofur could see me now, I'd be in for the ear-boxing of a lifetime."

Frodo returned a pale smile of his own. "I wouldn't doubt it. So – how are we going to do this?"

"I don't know," replied Sam, rubbing at his chin, but then he collapsed to his belly, pointing towards the south. "Look!"

Ducking himself, Frodo followed Sam's gaze, and his heart sank. There was an army marching on the gates, men clad in dark armour, with helmets and scarves that covered their faces. They were winding around the mountain walls of Mordor, but something in Frodo's gut told him that they were not there to attack the Black Gates.

"Who are they?" he murmured, half to himself. He was surprised to get an answer, and more surprised that it was Sméagol who spoke.

"Bad men," he hissed. "Wicked men, from the east. They come to pledge allegiance to _him,_ Gollum, Gollum!"

"Look, the gates are opening!" said Sam quickly. "This could be our chance – at least as good a chance as we'll ever get."

"You think we can slip into the ranks?" Frodo asked, and Sam shrugged.

"'s the only chance we'll get."

"Alright." Frodo took a deep breath. "Let's do it."

They pulled their hoods up over their heads and began to sneak down the edge of the cliff, but a cold hand latched onto the back of Frodo's collar and yanked him backwards. Sam glanced up over his shoulder and lost his footing, disappearing over the edge in a cloud of dust.

"Sam!"

"No!" Sméagol rasped, "No, master, no! Don't go, don't take it to him!"

"Let go!" Frodo demanded, elbowing Sméagol in the face until he let go, and frantically scrambling to the edge of the cliff. Sam was stuck halfway down the cliff, buried up to his chest in loose stone. There was a boulder to his right, sheltering him from the oncoming army, but it would only hide him for a few moments.

Horrified, Frodo launched himself over the edge of the cliff, but Sméagol gasped and gargled, wrapping his arms around Frodo's chest and wrenched him back over the edge.

"No, no master, he will catch you, he will catch you and take the precious!"

"I have to go," Frodo snarled, "Sam-"

"Do not go to the gate, do not!" wailed Sméagol, his voice rising. "He catch you!"

"I have to go to Mordor!" snarled Frodo, trying to wrestle Sméagol from him. The creature had learnt well, and was avoiding his elbows, but down below, a pair of soldiers had broken from the group, and were walking slowly towards their mountain. Towards Sam. "Let _go_!"

"There is another way, another way into Mordor, through the mountains, yes, the mountains, precious!" garbled Gollum. "We has been that way before, Master, we can show you! It's secret, yes, very secret!"

Desperation pounded at Frodo, and he struggled to get loose of Gollum. "Let – me – go!"

"Don't' take the precious to _him!"_

The soldiers were close now, so close to the boulder that was shielding Sam from view, and Frodo's heart stopped beating. "Fine, fine, I won't! You will lead us down the other road, the mountain road, just let me go to Sam!"

Sméagol hesitated. "Master won't go in the gate?"

"Master won't, I promise!" Almost at once, Sméagol's arms released, and Frodo flew over the edge, skidding down so quickly that no soldier would see him behind the rocks and boulders that littered the cliff, and he reached Sam without a second to spare. He scarcely had time to fall to his knees and cover them both with his cloak before he heard the soldiers walk around the corner.

He could hear their boots crunching against the ground, and see them beneath the cloak.

He held his breath.

Was this how it was to end? Caught so close to Mordor, damned for ignoring Sméagol? He could see it now, the hand reaching down and seizing the cloak, the swords that would slay them where they stooped.

But it never came.

Instead, when Frodo's lungs began to burn for want of a breath, the feet turned, and walked away. He waited another few seconds and then let out a sigh of relief.

"Are you hurt?" he murmured to Sam, before he dared remove the cloak.

Sam shook his head. "No, just stupid!" he whispered back. "And stuck, Frodo, I'm stuck."

Frodo nodded, and threw off the cloak, looking around furtively. "It's clear." He grabbed Sam's arm and pulled with all his might, and Sam budged, and then shifted, and Frodo dug his heels in. With a gasp, Sam was pulled clear, and they both collapsed against the large boulder that had saved their lives. Sam peered around the edge.

"We might still make it! C'mon, Frodo!"

Frodo lifted his foot to follow, but he felt eyes on the back of his neck, and he thought of Sméagol, and his own hasty oath. He doubted that even Thorin would blame him for breaking such a promise – there had been no choice if he wanted to save Sam's life. But still – if there was another way, it may be worth looking into. Striding through those gates now would be tantamount to suicide – they had no way to disguise themselves amongst the soldiers, or the orcs, and they had no plan to speak of once they got inside.

Honest or not, Sméagol was right. Walking through those gates was as good as handing Sauron the ring himself.

"Wait!" he hissed, grabbing Sam's arm. "No, not like this."

Sam frowned. "What do you mean? What other chance are we gonna get, Frodo?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "But I don't think this is the best way – we'll be caught, sure as we breathe. Sméagol says there is another way-"

Sam went red as a furnace. "And you _trust_ him?"

"No!" Frodo whispered, pulling Sam further back behind the boulder. "But if we walk in now we are good as surrendering, we need a plan. And even if Sméagol is lying, there's nothing to say there isn't a sneakier way. We're dwobbits, Sam. We can take the mountains if we must."

Sam opened his mouth, and then paused, and pursed his lips. He sighed, his eyes sliding suspiciously towards Sméagol, and then he nodded. "Fine. But don't you start trusting him over your own head, now, Frodo."

Frodo grinned wryly, squeezing Sam's arm. "I won't Sam. I won't."

 **I hope you enjoyed that little chapter. The big one is coming next, and that was even more fun to write!**


	65. Chapter 65: The Battle for the Beornings

**And here's the second! Enjoy!**

 **Chapter Sixty-Five: The Battle for the Beornings**

Mounted on his wolf between his brother and Nori, Fíli took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The uruk-hai were so close he could smell them, now, their stench made worse by the tang of smoke and blood. Beneath them, their wargs were panting and howling, snarling with open jaws. He opened his eyes. Their ugly faces were almost close enough to see now, and for Kíli and the sparse handful of Beorning archers, they were almost, almost, in range.

Fíli took another slow breath. He had to clear his mind, to banish his fears to the back of his mind. They would only slow him down. This he had learnt after the Battle of the Five Armies. Dwelling on the horrors that you were about to face would not help you deal with them. Fixating on the mortality of your kith and kin would not help you to focus. It was far easier to accept that battle was coming, and let the thrill of the fight course through your veins and lend you the strength to gain an edge over your foes.

It was hard to do when the odds were so deeply against you. They were an army of seventy – a hundred, if you counted the thirty odd eagles that would join the fight. The Beornings had lost nearly thirty people, and there were half a dozen folk too injured to fight. They were a few hundred yards back, hiding as best as they could in the trees of Mirkwood, were the injured Beornings, but they had nothing in the way of a camp. No one could be spared to guard them. If the uruk-hai reached them, they were on their own.

There were at least four hundred uruk-hai, and easily the same number of wargs. Though they were coming from the south, they certainly had the high-ground – even a child could see that the Beornings were tactically vulnerable.

To both the right and the left of the Beornings was Wilderland – vast and rocky, uneven and coarse. They would not make it far fleeing that way – there was nowhere to hide, and the terrain was too rough to build up any speed. They had nothing in the way of shelter on either side, and behind them there was only Mirkwood. It was not burning here – not yet at least – but the woods were far from friendly, and would offer little protection. If the orcs of Dol Guldur came behind them, they would get no shelter from the trees.

On paper, it was a recipe for death.

But if he was to die here, it would be a fight he was proud to die in. From the grim defiance in the eyes of Kíli and Bragi and Ehren, Fíli knew that they felt the same. Looking at them made it harder to concentrate, though, so he turned his eyes back ahead. Took another deep breath.

Resolve rippled through him, tempering his fear. He would do everything to protect his brother, and anything he could to protect his friends. If his life was the price he would pay it, without a thought.

He took another deep breath.

The army ahead of him stopped.

A large, ugly uruk stepped forward, and drove a banner into the ground. The flag of the Beornings hung sadly from its pike, torn, and stained with blood, but then the uruk raised his hand, and Fíli's stomach tumbled over itself. Beside him, Kíli moaned and looked away, and from their right, Jago let out a roar that shook the earth.

The leader of the uruk-hai was holding Thana's severed head.

"Look at them!" he roared, a horrific grin on his face, "All lined up to die. 'ave at 'em, boys!"

With an overwhelming chorus of battle-cries, the mounted army dove forward, charging at the Beornings, and fury charged through Fíli's veins. So these uruk-hai did not even think the Beornings worth bandying words with before battle.

 _"For our kin!"_ Grimbeorn bellowed, and then he dove forward, changing into bear form in mid-air, and rending the air before him with an ear-shattering roar.

The Beornings threw their voices to the air, and the ground shook beneath their battle-cries as they charged forward to meet the uruk-hai. Arrows shot over their heads and embedded in the necks of the uruk-hai archers, Kíli and the other Beornings hitting almost every one of their marks, before sending a volley to the uruk-hai's rear guard.

Fíli raised his swords high in the air as Sokka shot forwards, bearing them both toward battle with a speed Fíli could never achieve on his own, but they were not the first to meet the uruks. There were ten bears amongst them, many larger or stronger than Grimbeorn, but it was Grimbeorn that streaked ahead of all of them.

He launched himself into the air, a fully body-length ahead of the others, and with one swipe of his paw he struck aside the spear of the leader of the uruk-hai, sending shattered splinters shooting through the air. His other paw struck the uruk in the shoulder, sending him off of his mount and careening to the ground. Before even the leader's warg could come to his defence, Grimbeorn's great jaw closed around the uruk's head, and tore it clean from his shoulders.

Half a second later, the armies collided, and Fíli and Sokka flew into the fight. Twenty years ago, Fíli would have never imagined choosing to fight on the back of any beast, but he trusted Sokka as deeply as he trusted Bragi or Ehren, and they moved together like one being, twisting and dodging and slashing their way through the battle.

In a matter of seconds, Fíli knew that it was one of the fiercest fights he had ever faced. The uruk-hai seemed to feel no fear or pain, and if you severed a limb they would simply keep fighting with a fire that rivalled Smaug. A glee was on their faces, a sick, twisted surety that they would win, and enjoy every second of it, and it drew Fíli's swords straight to their smug skulls.

Three he beheaded, and two more he felled with blows to the head. Thoughts of morality and mortality bled out of his mind, and he became the warrior that Thorin had trained him to be. A dancer, a machine. A dwarven soldier.

A high-pitched yelp of pain tore through Fíli's ears, and Sokka was wrenched into the air. Frantic, Fíli twisted on his back to see a warg's jaw clamped over his wolf's rump, and he bellowed in rage, striking it again and again and again until it relented, and tossed both wolf and Fíli through the air.

They crashed through rows of fighting warriors, skidding to a halt by the forest's edge, and Fíli felt the skin tear from his cheek and hand. It was barely enough pain to register, and he untangled himself from Sokka, putting a hand on the wolf's shoulder. He looked down at the bite marks on Sokka's hips and swallowed, unable to keep his rage from shaking his voice.

"Can you get yourself out of here, boy?"

Sokka gave a small nod and a whine, reaching out and licking Fíli's fingers. A lump in his throat, Fíli stroked the ears of his good little wolf, and then patted his shoulder gently.

"Then go," he ordered. "Get out of here, get out of here now! Go to the injured Beornings, stay with them."

Whimpering, Sokka nodded again, pushing up onto his shaking legs and disappearing away into the forest. Fíli spent a precious second sending a prayer to the Valar, begging them to let his loyal little wolf reach safety. Then, he turned, and flung himself back into the fight.

He was level with the faces of the wargs now, but he dodged their snapping jaws with the same skill he dodged the swords of the uruk-hai, and he felled them without mercy – until he saw a warg with a bloodied jaw, and a familiar uruk sat upon its back. His rage grew again, swelling like a great wave, and he charged, thrusting his sword into the beast's eye. It howled with pain for a moment, until the sword sank deep into its brain, and it crumpled to the ground. Even as he ripped his right sword free, Fíli stabbed up with his left, and the uruk rider was dead before he hit the floor.

"That was for Sokka," Fíli snarled.

A blow struck across the back of his shoulders and he was thrown forwards, but his mithril coat held true and he rolled with the momentum, crashing into the legs of a nearby orc and taking him down. Twisting, Fíli wrenched his sword through the creature's throat for good measure and then sprang back up with a snarl.

An elbow struck the side of his head, but the pain was manageable, and he shook it off. He blocked a sword on its way to a young Beorning and drove his own sword into the uruk's face, throwing his foe away and driving onwards.

It was not until a few minutes later that Fíli realised he had fought right into the middle of the battlefield. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Ehren and Bragi, and on the other side Nori and Kíli were fighting nearby. They were each holding their ground, and littering the field with the corpses of their foes.

But for every uruk they struck down, three more took its place. They were limitless, and the Beornings were being pushed back, further and further from the dwarves. A few of the fiercer fighters were still close – Grimbeorn and Jago, another couple of bears, some men and women and several wolves – but the others were crumbling, being pushed further and further towards the woods.

Fíli's rage tempered slightly, and he paused. He had to get back there – he could not push forward further when there were children dying behind him. Yet even as he turned, a strange horn blew in the woods, a horn he could have sworn he had heard before. Cold fear pooled in Fíli's stomach, and despair tried to creep up towards his throat. They were already losing – they were already being driven back, with nowhere left to retreat or run.

If the horn announced reinforcements for the uruk-hai, they were all doomed.

Breathing heavily, Fíli stared at the trees, but around him the uruk-hai paused too, and Fíli thought that he glimpsed confusion on their faces. He looked back to the trees, and saw an army burst out from the darkness of Mirkwood.

Shock rippled through him, and a wild laugh tore from his lungs.

The elves of Mirkwood had come.

 _"Yes!"_ Kíli yelled, from somewhere on Fíli's right, and he grinned as Ehren and Bragi added their voices to the call. "Yes! Du bekar!"

Led by a fiery haired warrior that could only be Tauriel, the elves sprang out from between the trees in full armour, their swords aflame with the light of the sun, and their eyes blazing with a fury that paused the uruk-hai. In the time it took for Fíli to raise his swords again, the elves had leapt over the Beornings and set upon the Isengarders, and Fíli could feel the battle turn around them. Almost at once, the strikes of the uruk-hai became more frantic, more careless, and Fíli felled three in a single swipe of his sword.

He did not know how many elves there were, but they were flooding through the ranks of Saruman's soldiers, and another wild laugh bubbled out from Fíli's chest. They were not going to die today. Not today.

But then he heard a yelp, and he looked to the left. He could see Bragi, on his back on the ground, and there was a warg lurching for his head. Dropping his guard, Fíli ran forwards, but Bragi threw a ferocious kick to the warg's face and hurried away, spinning back into the battle with his usual finesse.

Fíli paused, relieved, but then pain exploded in the small of his back, and he was thrown to the ground. A scream met his ears – the only scream that could stop his heart in that moment.

 _"No!"_

Kíli.

Fíli rolled over, just in time to see the uruk above him bring his sword down, and there was no time to move away –

And the tip of the sword hit his chest –

And a blur crashed into the uruk, and the sword slid down his side, leaving nothing but a bruise, and the blur stabbed the uruk until it stayed down.

"Fíli!" Kíli gasped, crawling over and grabbing his arm. "Fíli, are you alright?"

Fíli grinned, grasping Kíli's hand. "Thanks to you."

Kíli did not smile. He was pale as death, and his eyes were heavy. "Your back?"

Rolling his shoulder blades, Fíli's grin grew. "Shiny shirt, still working. I'm fine."

"Be careful, Fíli, please," Kíli begged, his eyes darting between Fíli and the battle that thundered around them. "You're being reckless again, not watching your back. Please, Fíli-"

"Alright, alright!" Fíli promised, holding up his hands. "I promise, Kíli, I'll be fine."

Kíli glared at him. "I said be careful, not just 'fine,'" he grumbled, but then he managed to shoot Fíli a weak smile of his own. "And back into the fray?"

"Back into the fray," Fíli agreed, and they burst back up into the battle. Despite himself, and his promise to Kíli, Fíli could not help but look over again. Bragi was on the ground now, bent over a bleeding Beorning, and Ehren was at his back, an ever-vigilant guard with eyes ablaze, but it should not have been Ehren.

It should have been Soren.

Rage and grief swelled anew within him, and a blood-red haze descended over his eyes. With a roar of fury, Fíli lurched forward, hacking at every uruk-hai he could reach. He did not care who they were, where they were going – they were the allies of those that killed Soren, and they had killed so many innocent Beornings, and they were going to pay.

He could no longer see where he was going, or hear the clamour of war. The battle-cries and shrieks of pain and clashes of metal no longer met his ears, and he no longer smelt smoke or sweat or blood. All he knew was the next target, all he heard was the rush of blood in his own ears.

He barely noticed the battle bleed away. He did not realise that it was over until he saw that there were no more necks to hew. He had ended up in the middle of the field, separated from all of his kin.

There were no uruk-hai left standing. Each and every one of them had been slaughtered, and their battered corpses littered the ground. Beside them and beneath them were Beornings, some in human form and others in the shape of an animal. Some were breathing, short, shallow breaths that came far too weakly, but most were not so lucky. Most were dead. Scanning the battlefield, Fíli could see maybe thirty of Grimbeorn's followers standing, if that. He could see Grimbeorn himself, stumbling over to thank the elves, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

A shiver danced down his spine, a prickle of fear, and Fíli turned to look toward his friends. They were gathered beside an enormous boulder on the left side of the battlefield, a rock so big that it could almost be called a hill. There was Ehren, pressing his hands against the bleeding chest of a young fox. Bragi was nearby, binding the arm of another fighter. Behind them was Nori, pale as death, leaning against the wall of the boulder. His arm was pressed against his side, but when an elf approached him, he waved them off, towards the injured Beornings.

But Kíli was not there.

Frowning, Fíli twisted around, scanning the stumbling survivors' faces, but none of them were his brother. A great weight closed around his ribs, squeezing his lungs, and Fíli stumbled forward. His toes hit a body, and he froze.

For a moment, he could not look down. He could not move. If that was Kíli, if that was his brother beneath him –

Swallowing, Fíli glanced down, and two lifeless, brown eyes stared back up at him. It was another of the Beornings – a girl not yet fully in her teens.

Fíli looked up, blinking back against the hot pain in his eyes, and drew in a deep breath. "Kíli! _Kíli_!"

Kíli did not yell back.

A wrenching cry of grief and fear and pain ripped through the air, and Fíli's heart froze. Burning cold, it shattered in his chest as he saw one of the triplets lead Grimbeorn to the body of a large, dead bear.

Jago.

Aeron would be an orphan after all.

Tears broke their way onto Fíli's cheeks, and he filled his lungs again. _"Kíli? Kíli!"_

The post-battle chorus was filling the air, moaning and shrieking and sobbing, and amongst it all, there was still no Kíli. Fíli forced his eyes to the ground, turning on the spot once more to search the faces of the dead.

They were so young, and their fear was carved into their faces.

No Kíli.

They were old, wrinkled beyond measure, too old to be cut down like this.

No Kíli.

They were parents, brothers, sisters, men and women who had taken up arms as a desperate last hope.

No Kíli.

" _Kíli!"_ Fíli's yell tore from his throat like sandpaper, and he began to stumble back towards Bragi and Ehren. Towards the last time he had seen his brother.

Bragi stood up as he approached, blood on his hands and his face and his hair, but none of it seemed to be his. "What's wrong?"

"Kíli, have you seen Kíli?" Fíli grasped Bragi's arms desperately. "I can't find him!"

The colour drained from Bragi's face until it was white as his hair, and he shook his head. "No. The elves are here now, I'll help you look. Ehren!"

"Already here," said Ehren gravely, "we'll find him, Fíli."

Unable to speak, Fíli nodded, tearing away to scour the faces of the injured on the ground. No Kíli, no Kíli –

"Fíli? What's going on?"

Nori – not Kíli. Impatient, Fíli ignored him, leaving Ehren to explain what was going on. It was getting harder for Fíli to breathe, harder for him to think.

A wet nose and hot breath nuzzled at the back of his hand, and Fíli glanced down. His heart stumbled over itself – it was Luno. His muzzle was matted with blood, both red and black, and he was covered in bites and vicious gouges from the wargs, but he was standing, and breathing normally. Fíli dropped down onto his knee and stroked the wolf's cheek gently. "Luno! Good boy, good boy, do you know where Kíli is?"

Luno whined, backing away and limping as quickly as he could around the great boulder. Fíli hurried after him, and then stopped, dismay rising up so quickly that it blocked his throat. Luno had not brought him to Kíli. He had brought him to Grimbeorn, and to Jago.

Jago had not gone down without a fight. The great bear's body was slumped before the boulder, its head and limbs pointed towards the rock. It was almost as though he had been curled around something, protecting something, before he died.

There had been nothing there to protect him. There were three broken spears, two black swords and half a dozen arrow shafts protruding from Jago's back, and dark blood seeped from each wound. He had been alive for every blow – it had taken them all to knock him down.

But they had knocked him down in the end.

Beside him, Grimbeorn was sobbing freely, his knees shaking beneath him, refusing to let him rise. Seeing Beorn's son struggling to get to his feet beside the corpse of his brother-in-law did not help Fíli.

"Luno-" he choked, but the wolf had not stopped. Instead, he was limping around Grimbeorn, around Jago's body. He whined, and gestured with his head for Fíli to follow.

"Kíli-"

Luno whined again, more desperately, and disappeared behind Jago's head. Desperate, Fíli followed, squeezing Grimbeorn's shoulder as he did. Jago's arm stretched right up to the rock, and Luno clambered over it into a small space between the bear and the boulder. Fíli hesitated for a moment, but Luno let out a sound like a dying puppy, and Fíli stepped over Jago's leg, into the space. Luno was lying down, his head on the ground, and Fíli almost screamed from frustration, until he noticed what Luno was pressing his nose against.

A hand.

A pale, dwarven hand.

"Kíli?" Fíli whispered.

The hand did not move.

 _"Kíli!"_ Fíli collapsed to the ground and threw himself against Jago's body, pushing with all his might. The great bear was nearly five times his size, and his weight was immense, but Fíli steeled himself and shoved, until he could see his brother's sleeve beneath the bear.

"What are you doing?" moaned Grimbeorn, his voice thick with tears. "Leave, leave him alone, please-"

"Help me!" Fíli grunted through gritted teeth, pushing harder. He could see Kíli's hair now, but he could not see his brother move. "Please!"

Grimbeorn whined like a wounded wolf, but he crawled over to see what Fíli was doing, and then he gasped. He surged forward, into the space between Jago and the rock, and he threw his arms beneath his brother-in-law, lifting his lifeless body up until Kíli's whole body was visible. Fíli seized his arm and tugged, pulling Kíli out from beneath the bear. Grimbeorn lowered Jago back to the ground, shifting him a little further back to give the two dwarves a little more space, but Fíli did not notice.

All Fíli noticed was that Kíli was limp as a rag doll, and face down, and unmoving. With a strangled sob, Fíli wrenched Kíli onto his back, desperate to see his chest rise and fall.

"Come on, Kíli, come on, come on, come on, breathe, Kíli, breathe!" he begged, pressing his palm against his brother's face and holding his own cheek over Kíli's mouth. He felt Kíli's breath, shallow and weak but unmistakeable, and his own breath left his lungs.

He was breathing. Kíli was breathing.

But his eyes were closed, and he was pale as a corpse, and he was not moving. There was a great bruise on his forehead, black and red and swollen, a mark the size of a fist above his right eye, but Fíli could not see any other obvious injuries. He ran his hands over Kíli's chest and arms, searching for blood, but there was nothing, nor were there wounds on his legs.

"Kíli, can you hear me? Wake up, Kíli, wake up, come on, wake up," he pleaded, shaking Kíli's shoulder. His brother's head lolled to the side, and Fíli swallowed, his fingers rising to brush over the bruise on Kíli's head.

How hard had Kíli been hit? Was he concussed? Was it worse? What had happened to his baby brother?

Why was he not waking up?

A shiver ran down Fíli's spine and he paused, a horrible thought dawning on him. With trembling hands, Fíli reached beneath Kíli's body and began to run his hands down his brother's back. And when he reached the base of Kíli's spine, by his hips, Fíli felt it. There was swelling there, a lot of it, and when his fingers ran over it Kíli jolted slightly.

Fíli knew what that meant.

"Oh, Kíli," he whispered, lowering his forehead onto his brother's. He felt, rather than heard, Bragi and Ehren run over, and Ehren choked behind him.

"What happened?" demanded Bragi, hurrying around to kneel by Kíli's side. "Fíli-"

"His back," Fíli croaked, raising his head. "I think he's hurt his back, I think it's bad, Bragi."

Bragi's eyes bulged. "His back?"

Fíli nodded, and Bragi dove forwards, gently running his own hands beneath Kíli. Horror dawned on his face as he stared at Fíli, shaking his head slightly.

"That… that feels broken to me," he said, in a voice that was as weak as Kíli.

"Why won't he wake up?" Fíli begged, running his hands through Kíli's hair. He longed to pull his brother into his arms, to rest his head on his lap, but he was terrified that any more movement would make things worse. "Bragi, why won't he wake up?"

Bragi shook his head, his hand on Kíli's shoulder. "Ehren, go get the elves. We need a healer and we need one now."

Without a word, Ehren turned and fled. Vaguely, Fíli noticed that Grimbeorn had moved Jago's corpse aside, giving them more room, and opening up the rest of the battlefield to sight. Fíli could not look at it. He could not look at anything but Kíli's face.

And then Kíli's eyes twitched, moving beneath their lids, and Fíli's breath caught in his throat. "Kíli? Kíli can you hear me? Wake up, Kíli, that's it, come on, wake up, please, come on, _please!_ "

Kíli gave a soft moan, and Fíli's heart stumbled.

"Come on, Kíli, come on," he whispered, and Kíli's head shifted slightly. His eyes flickered, and Fíli stroked his hair, and Kíli's eyes slowly opened. "Hello, Kíli," Fíli said, a lump in his throat. "Easy, brother."

Hazy brown eyes met Fíli's and focused, and fear kindled within them. "F…Fee…"

"I'm here," Fíli promised, unable to stop the smile from creeping onto his face. Kíli was breathing, and awake, and talking –

"Fee, I – I –" Kíli gasped, his eyes growing wider, and Fíli squeezed his hand.

"Shh," Fíli breathed. "It's alright, I'm here. Just breathe-"

"I can't, can't feel my legs," whimpered Kíli, his fingers wrapping tighter around Fíli's, and his words wiping the smile from Fíli's face. "I couldn't – couldn't breathe – it was, was dark, so heavy – I couldn't breathe – I can't – can't feel my legs!"

"It's alright," said Fíli, though his voice shook. "You've hurt your back, nadadith. Just lie still, lie very still. Ehren's getting the elves, they're going to fix you. I promise, Kíli, you're going to be just fine."

"My back?" Kíli started to lift his neck to look down, but Bragi laid his hand on Kíli's forehead and gently eased it back down.

"Careful, lad," he said softly. "If we're right, it's best you keep your spine still."

The colour seeped from Kíli's cheeks, and he glanced between Bragi and Fíli. "Oh…"

"Can you tell me what happened?" asked Fíli, stroking Kíli's hair back. "It might help…" As he spoke, his hand brushed over the bruise on Kíli's forehead, and his brother winced. "I'm sorry, Kíli."

"Don't be sorry," Kíli mumbled, tilting his head slightly. Fíli returned to stroking Kíli's hair, keeping clear of the bruise, and Kíli closed his eyes. "I was… I was trying… trying to protect the… the little ones. The uruk-hai were – were closing in… I didn't…" his eyes opened, and fixed on Fíli. "I didn't know where you were. I was afraid."

A lump rose in Fíli's throat, and it took him a moment to be able to speak. "I'm sorry, Kíli. I wouldn't – I shouldn't've – if I'd – I shouldn't have left you, I should never have left you, I'm sorry-"

"I was afraid, so afraid, _for_ you," said Kíli, his lower lip trembling, just like it had when he was a child. "I thought – you've been – reckless. Too busy protecting… everybody else."

"I should have been," Fíli moaned, guilt beating on his chest. "I'm sorry, Kíli, I'm so sorry."

"No, you, you were doing… what you were s'posed… to do… What I – asked you t'do…" Kíli paused, grimacing. His eyes squeezed shut and his hand tightened painfully around Fíli's. He choked, and then choked again, turning his head to the side and gagging, and Fíli's stomach dropped.

Panic flooded Fíli's mind, but Bragi dove forward, easing Kíli's shoulder ever so slightly off the ground and shifting his head and neck, and at once Kíli's choking turned to retching, and then vomiting. Fíli did not breathe until it was over, and Kíli was breathing again. Slowly, Bragi lowered Kíli back down, supporting his neck with a care that could not be faulted. As he did so, he bellowed, "Ehren! Hurry up!"

Fíli nodded his thanks, and pulled his sleeve over his hand, wiping the vomit from Kíli's cheek. His breathing was rattling now, and he was trembling, badly.

"It's alright," Fíli soothed, tucking Kíli's hair back behind his ears and pretending that he was not terrified himself. "It's alright, we're here, we've got you."

"Might add concussion to your list of maladies," added Bragi softly. "But you're going to be just fine."

Kíli shuddered, looking up at Fíli. "Was… a – a warg… Got me in the chest, with its paw – it threw me…"

"Threw you?"

"Into the, the rock," said Kíli, opening his eyes and looking towards Bragi, and the boulder behind him. As soon as he moved, Kíli turned yellow, and Bragi had only a moment to catch him and ease him back over to throw up again. Fíli held Kíli's hair back, and his eyes wandered up the rock.

Up close, he could see that it was rugged and sharp, and far from round – it was as though it had tried to branch out and grow, with sharp sections of rock reaching out from the main boulder. If Kíli had been thrown into that by a warg, that could easily explain the swelling in his back.

And why Kíli could not feel his legs.

"Alright," Fíli said slowly, calmly, as Kíli managed to stop gagging. "It's alright."

"Jago-" Kíli broke off to cough, grimacing as it rocked his body. Bragi and Fíli helped hold him still, and Kíli shuddered again. A thin sheen of sweat was glistening on his pale forehead, and he was turning almost grey. "Jago – tried to help… to protect… but they got me, got me with… think it was… blunt end of a spear… My _head –_ I thought it was going to explode… Then… I woke up – I was being, being crushed. It was so hot – so heavy – I couldn't _breathe_ – I don't… don't know what… what it was… Where's Jago?"

Fíli's throat closed, refusing to let him reply to Kíli's frightened, imploring eyes. He hung his head and squeezed his brother's hand, wishing that he could pull him up into his lap or throw his arms around him without hurting Kíli more.

Once again, Bragi came to Fíli's rescue. "He fell, Kíli," he said gently, glancing over at Grimbeorn, who had moved on to help a skin-changer who seemed to be caught between human and canine forms. "I'm sorry, Kíli, but he was what was crushing you."

"He's dead?" Kíli croaked, tilting his head towards Fíli. "Dead?"

With a heavy sigh, Fíli nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"He… he saved me…" Kíli shivered, and closed his eyes. "It's… very cold…"

Fíli glanced at Bragi and swallowed, seeing his own fear reflect back at him. Neither had a cloak or a coat, or anything that they could easily drape over Kíli – all of that had gone forward with Dís and Bilbo, or been left behind on the roadside to shed weight.

"I'm back!" Ehren panted, skidding to a halt beside them. There were two elves on his heels – Tauriel, the Captain of the Guard, and a stranger, and beside the stranger there was someone else. Someone who shoved both Tauriel and the stranger out of the way to charge to Fíli's side. Someone who Fíli did not expect to see here – someone that Fíli had never been more happy to see.

 _Bilbo._

Fíli almost sobbed with relief at the sight of his father, and he reached out his hand like a child. Bilbo grabbed it tightly and fell to his knees beside him, his face torn into the very picture of fear.

"Kíli, oh, my lad, what have you done?" he breathed, running his hand through Kíli's hair.

Kíli's eyes grew wide and round, childlike, confused and vulnerable, but hopeful and trusting. "Bilbo? Bilbo, what – how-"

"It's me, Kíli, it's me, my lad," Bilbo murmured, stroking Kíli's head gently. "I'm here, my little one, I'm here."

"How?" Kíli choked, letting go of Bragi to grab at Bilbo's arm. "Amad-"

"Is safe, in the Woodland Realm, with Vinca and Glóin and all the little Beornings," soothed Bilbo. "Bofur is with me, though – he's with Nori."

"Is Nori alright?" asked Kíli. Fíli could see his eyes starting to lose focus, and the shivering was going worse. The relief that had flooded Fíli at the sight of Bilbo bled away, and he tightened his grip on his brother's hand.

"He'll be just fine," promised Bilbo, as the elves crouched down on either side of Kíli.

"Hello, Kíli," said Tauriel gently. "We really should stop meeting like this."

A tiny little half smile was coaxed onto Kíli's cheek, but it disappeared as his eyes slid between Tauriel and Bilbo. "I can't feel my legs, Bilbo, I – I can't move my legs – I feel sick, very sick and my head – Bilbo, it feels like they're still hitting me. I'm scared."

Bilbo swallowed, hard, and Fíli's fingers burnt beneath the intensity of the hobbit's grasp. "I'm here," Bilbo choked, "I'm here."

Kíli shivered, and closed his eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly towards Bilbo and Fíli.

"Now, Kíli, keep your eyes open, please," said Bilbo, his voice shaking. "Look at me, lad, look at me."

Kíli groaned, but he opened his eyes obediently, staring up at Bilbo. Bilbo offered him a weak smile, but there were tears in the hobbit's eyes, and he was shaking almost as much as Kíli. Fíli tore his own gaze away, looking up at the elves. Tauriel was staring at her companion, a grave look on her face, and Fíli hung his head.

This was his fault. He should have been more careful, he should have looked after his brother. He should never have left Kíli's side. Guilt flooded through him, and Fíli closed his eyes.

His baby brother was broken, and it was all his fault.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! So – where did the elves come from? Where did _Bilbo_ come from? What do you think's wrong with Kíli? Please do let me know, I love hearing from you! I'll try to update next week, but I'm still away so I can make no promises. **

**Until next time, take care!**


	66. Chapter 66: The Battle of Helm's Deep

**Hi there! I'm very sorry for the severe delay in updates. Since I last saw you I've flown across the world, got rather ill (twice), got better, returned to work, and suffered severe writer's block, mainly with my original novels, though this story suffered to. I offer this information not as an excuse or a search for pity, but as an explanation to my absence, with I feel I owe you as I have made a commitment to weekly updates that I have not been upholding. In any case, I am now a little more on track, and will update two chapters today as they are finally ready (and originally part of one uber chapter, hence the delay in both of them) and I will be unlikely to turn my laptop on tomorrow as I will be working and then attending a talk with Patrick Ness, which is exciting! After tomorrow, we _should_ be back to Monday updates, starting on the 17th of September, and I will do my best to uphold that. **

**Anyway, please forgive any mistakes in this chapter, as ever, and I hope that you enjoy it.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Six: The Battle of Helm's Deep**

A cool breeze swept over the battlements of Helm's Deep, stirring Aragorn's hair from his face as he watched the sun sink over the horizon. It had almost vanished now, and the final rays of light were fading into the darkness that was creeping over the hills. The army of Saruman was cresting the horizon, still so far away that they looked like beetles, crawling their way towards Rohan's great fortress. Their lines stretched all the way across the valley, and though it was hard yet to see, Aragorn thought that the scouts' estimate of ten thousand uruk-hai had been wishful thinking.

"There are so many," breathed Éomer beside him, his eyes roaming the hills. "There must be fifteen thousand at least – and not only orcs, I would wager. See there, where the torches burn already? They are not so organised as the others – wildlings from the north, I don't doubt. Ever have they hated our people."

Aragorn stared at the flickering torches and sighed. "If you are right, they do not know what they do. Saruman wants only to destroy and dominate all men – they are playing into their own destruction."

"If we lose," said Éomer sharply, and Aragorn looked at him.

"Either way," he said. "If we win, they will not come out of it well."

It was Éomer's turn to sigh. "It won't be long now. An hour and they will be upon us."

Something in Éomer's tone turned Aragorn's head, and he studied the younger man for a long moment. "You do not think we will win this fight."

Éomer shook his head and rubbed his chin, glancing around at those in earshot. "I would not say that – but we are outnumbered. Do you know how many fighters we've mustered?" When Aragorn shook his head, Éomer gave a bitter smile. "Four and a half thousand. Near three thousand soldiers, but the rest… stable-boys and grandfathers and farmers – folk who've never held a sword in their lives. They should not have to fight – but the rest of our army is scattered. There is no time to reach them now, and Erkenbrand's disappeared with most of our local force. Three thousand – _three thousand_ – are missing alongside him. With them, we'd have more of a chance."

"There is still hope," Aragorn insisted, and Éomer dragged a smile onto his cheeks.

"Yes, there is still hope. This fortress has never fallen while men fight to defend it."

Silence fell over them like a blanket of iron mail, and the first patterings of rain began to spit from the sky. There was a chill in the air, a bite to the wind, and to Aragorn's right he saw a young soldier, trembling. The boy – for he could not be older than twelve – was standing thirty feet or so from Aragorn and Éomer, staring outwards at the approaching army. His face was pale as the hidden moon, and his helmet and sword were clearly too big for him.

Whether it was cold or fear that shook the boy, Aragorn could not tell. Before Aragorn could so much as turn to approach the lad, a tall man strode over. He leant against the wall beside the boy, and offered him a swig from a hip-flask. They began to talk, and though Aragorn was too far away to make out their words, he could see the boy's shoulders slowly relax, and his shivering fade a little. After a few minutes, the man took the boy's long sword – a blade that came up to the lad's shoulder – and rested it against the wall. In its place, he gave the boy his own hunting knife, crafted – as Aragorn knew well – by the finest smith's in Gondor. Then, the man put a hand on the boy's shoulder and turned to stare at the army himself.

"I had heard that Boromir of Gondor was a great man," said Éomer softly. "It was not until I met him that I realised he is a good man, too."

"He is a very good man," Aragorn agreed, a sad smile pulling at his lips as he watched Boromir continue to talk with the young soldier of Rohan. "As selfless as they come. He all but laid down his life for Merry and Pippin. I think even the uruk-hai knew that he would chose death over watching his friends carted away."

"Do you think we can win this fight?"

Aragorn paused for a moment, his gaze slowly shifting from Boromir to the ever-nearer army. "Yes," he said. "I know that we can. There is always hope."

Éomer looked to Boromir, and to the boy that now stood with a knife that he could handle, and he grinned slowly. "Yes… there is always hope." Then the man's grin grew, and he nodded over Aragorn's shoulder at two approaching figures. "And sometimes hope is delivered in the most unlikely of friends."

Aragorn turned, smiling himself at the sight of Legolas and Gimli approaching, armed to the teeth with grim smiles of their own.

"The damned beasts brought their weather with them," growled Gimli, scowling up at the sky. "There's a storm coming."

"How very prophetic of you," commented Legolas lightly, looking utterly unfazed at the idea of rain.

"We better win, Aragorn," continued Gimli in the same growling voice. "If I have to fight my way to Nelly and Bróin without the use of my head I'll kill you."

Aragorn smiled. "I do not doubt it, though if you were headless I imagine there would be little chance of my own head being attached."

"No, lad, you've more luck than the rest of us put together," the dwarf grumbled, but he was grinning, and he stood on his toes to try and peer over the edge of the wall. "How long have we to go? I want to kill some orcs!"

"Patience, Master Gimli," said Éomer, grinning wryly. "They will be upon us soon."

A rumble of thunder rolled through the valley like a murmur of assent, and the rain began to fall faster and harder, clinking off the metal armour of the waiting soldiers. A few moments later, lightning forked across the sky, illuminating an army of near twenty thousand. Out of the corner of his eye, Aragorn spied Legolas, eyes wide in the white of the lightning. He looked almost pale, and he pursed his lips. Aragorn understood why.

The odds were slipping out of their favour with every drop of cold rain that fell, running further out of reach with the feet of every foe that approached. They were outnumbered, and outmatched.

"Well," said Éomer, a grim smile spreading across his face. "It was nice knowing you, gentlemen. I'll ready the troops."

Soon, the rhythmic pounding of the orc's marching feet was close enough to hear, an endless roll of thunder, unyielding to the lightning that flashed brighter and brighter across the sky. The rain, too, was relentless, crashing down with a force that stung the faces of those men who dared to look up, yet it did not – or perhaps could not – quench the fires of the approaching army, nor could it utterly drown the torches of Rohan. Dwindling, flickering flames clung to damp wood and dwindling fuel, refusing to surrender without a fight. Much like the men who had lit them.

Shouts rang out over the rumble of marching feet, calling the men to their stations. Boromir stood on Aragorn's right, and Legolas and Gimli on his left. They were in the centre of the wall, facing the onslaught to come, out on the front line. Soldiers flanked them on either side, and when Éomer had finished organising the fighters, he would join them, leading his people to the battle. Théoden was nearby, armed to the teeth in a tower with a vantage point over the whole battlefield.

The men of Rohan fell into place.

Only moments later, the uruk-hai came to a halt.

The air buzzed and crackled in the dark, charged as though lightning was still scouring the sky. Aragorn drew in a slow, deep breath as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and readied his borrowed bow. Then, noise swelled around them again as the uruk-hai began to pound their spears against the ground, growling and snarling like animals.

Aragorn raised a single eyebrow, unimpressed, though he was sure that the display was having the desired effect on some of the less experienced soldiers. Still, the lines of Rohan stood firm, unflinching despite the fear the orcs would inflict, and Théoden barked out an order to the bowman to ready themselves. As he nocked an arrow, Aragorn's eyes were drawn to a large uruk, standing with a flag upon a great stone above the army. The general. There was a sickening grin on his face as he threw back his head and roared, and at once the uruk-hai charged, their roars and battle-cries drowning out the thunder that clapped around them. There was a beat, a pause of a careful moment, and then Théoden barked out an order to the archers. At once, a volley flew over Aragorn's head as he released an arrow of his own, and a ripple of orcs went down. Already, Gimli was ducking away from Legolas' elbows as the elf readied another arrow, and the order to volley came again a beat later. Once more arrows hailed down, and a spattering of uruk-hai fell.

"Fire at will!"

At once, Aragorn aimed for the uruk-hai general, pointing his arrow at the beast's smug face, but his shot fell short, bouncing off of the helmet of an orc a few rows in front.

 _And that, Estel, is why you always shoot at targets you're certain are in range. That is a waste of a good arrow._

Aragorn smiled at Elladan's voice in his mind and fixed a nearer target, shooting right through the enemy's eye. A second later, Legolas strung two arrows at once.

They struck the orc general in the neck.

"Now, that is just showing off," said Aragorn wryly, and Legolas grinned.

"What's showing off?" demanded Gimli, jumping up to try and get a better view. "What's going on?"

"Would you like me to describe it to you?" asked Legolas, still smoothly shooting arrow after arrow. "Or would you like me to find you a box?"

Gimli barked a laugh and Aragorn snorted.

"Ladders!" Boromir yelled, even as Aragon saw them himself.

The uruk-hai ranks were parting to make way for great ladders that trundled towards the walls on wheels. Even as he began shooting at those pushing the ladders forwards, Aragorn saw the orcs take up bows of their own, but the very sight of them was worrying. They were large, almost as long as the ladders, and the bolts placed inside them were like grappling hooks.

Aragorn knew exactly what they were for.

One shot, and a few feet away from him a soldier was thrown back with a yell, and then dragged back by the shaft in his chest as the hook took a hold on the wall. He went limp, and did not move again. "Cut the rope!" Aragorn yelled, gesturing at the people nearby, but the rope was too far down to reach by leaning over the battlements, and so it there was little they could do to stop it from drawing a ladder up. Closer.

"Your turn is coming, Gimli," said Aragorn evenly.

"Good!" the dwarf growled, and gripped his axe tightly. "Let me at them!"

With a great crash, the first ladder came into place, and at once orcs poured over the wall. Gimli barrelled through the crowd towards them, roaring with more ferocity than any orc and tearing down three foes at once. He twisted and turned through the fight with eyes that blazed with fury, and in a matter of moments there was a ring of corpses around him.

"Legolas! Six already!"

"I'm on seventeen!" Legolas called back, and Aragorn rolled his eyes, letting lose another arrow. He was not ready forsake his bow for a sword – not yet. There was still more foes to target from here, and Gimli was holding the fort well enough on his own. He even let the soldiers of Rohan get a lick in too, on occasion.

But another ladder soon stuck in place, and another, and another, and the uruk-hai storming the wall became more pressing a threat than those below. Throwing down his bow, Aragorn drew Andúril and charged into the melee, taking down foe after cursed foe. The battle grew hot and fierce, but the men of Rohan held their own, and hope began to take flame in Aragorn's heart. The fighting wore on for almost an hour, but despite the losses of Rohan, the uruk-hai had not yet made it any further than the first wall, those few that managed to descend the stairs being shot or chopped down by the second line of the men.

But even as he thought so, something caught his eye. A flaming torch, wielded by a single uruk, charging towards the wall. Something was wrong – the other uruks were chanting, urging him on, and at once Aragorn thought of Saruman.

"Legolas!" he yelled, shoving an uruk out of his way. "Shoot it! Shoot him down, stop him!"

With a nod, Legolas leapt atop the wall and began to shoot, with Gimli and Boromir covering him, but though the arrows struck their mark, they did not fell the orc. The beast ran on, and leapt towards the wall about two hundred yards from where Aragorn was standing – toward the small drainage tunnel in the wall. There was a pause, a beat of nothingness where Aragorn could pray that his fears were unfounded, but then the air was wrought by noise and fire, and Aragorn and the others were thrown through the air.

He landed with a thud on the floor, near three feet from where he had last been standing, shaking his head to try and clear the ringing from his ears. They had blown up the wall – the uruk-hai had blown up the wall. Two hundred yards down from them, there was only corpse-strewn rubble where the great barrier had stood, and already the enemy was swarming over it. Aragorn staggered to his feet and stumbled towards them, but a cry turned him back.

"Legolas? Legolas! Where's the damned elf?"

At once, Aragorn looked back to where the elf had been standing atop the wall, but there was no sign of him. Gimli and Boromir were rising to their feet, but Legolas had not fallen back onto the wall. A thrill of horror shot through Aragorn and he ran over, all but throwing himself against the wall to stare desperately down below. In a heartbeat, he saw Legolas at the base of the wall, bent over but on his feet, surrounded but alive.

"Rope!" Aragorn bellowed, over Théoden and Éomer's shouts to retreat. "Boromir, Gimli, rope, now!"

Legolas swung his sword, driving back the uruk-hai swarming around him, but they surged forward just as quickly, and the elf was driven back until his back was pressed against the wall. His right arm hung limp at his side, and even from above, Aragorn could see the red of blood in Legolas' white blonde hair.

"Legolas!" the cry wrenched from his throat and Aragorn knew that it was too late, but then someone dove past him, careening over the edge of the cliff with a rope tied around his chest.

Boromir scaled the wall in a matter of seconds, all but running down its great sides, and beside Aragorn Gimli held the rope tight, his jaw clenched tightly shut. Aragorn made to help, but Gimli shook his head.

"I need to know what's happening!" he yelled through gritted teeth. "Tell me when he reaches the elf!"

Nodding, Aragorn flung himself back against the wall. "He's almost there!"

Gimli grunted, and shifted his grip on the rope, allowing just a little more slack. Down below, Boromir kicked away a sword that was aiming for the elf's head, and then he swiftly wrapped his legs around Legolas' waist.

"He's got him!" Aragorn yelled, even as Boromir wrapped his arms around Legolas' chest, and Gimli began to pull. It was like watching a machine to see the dwarf at work, reaching forward on the rope time after time after time, working at a speed Aragorn would not have imagined possible, even for one of Durin's folk. But Gimli managed it, and within a minute, Boromir and Legolas were dangling at the very top of the wall. Aragorn seized Boromir's shoulders and pulled, dragging the pair over the top and back onto the safety of the walkway. Boromir was on his feet in moments, but Legolas pulled on Aragorn's hand to rise, and he looked pale and shaken.

"Thank you, Gimli," he said, and there was a twang of pain in his voice that he could not quite hide.

"You're hurt-" Aragorn began, but Éomer's voice cut him off.

"Fall back! Aragorn, hurry! What are you waiting for?"

Without so much as exchanging glances, the four hunters ran back towards the keep. Already there were uruk-hai pounding against the door below, but there was another door higher in the keep, attached to the wall that they were on, and Éomer was hanging out of it, gesturing desperately.

"Fall back! Get them out, get into the keep!" he bellowed, rousing the few other soldiers that remained on the wall.

With a final push, the four hunters crashed into the keep, closing the door on the uruk-hai outside, but the door was made of wood, and Aragorn knew that it would not hold for long. It had never had to before – the Deeping Wall had been its main defence. Never had Rohan expected to see their wall blown apart.

Despite the strength of the soldiers, and the king himself holding the door, within half an hour the battle spilt into the outer arena of the keep, and the minutes spilt into hours.

The rows of uruk-hai seemed endless – line after line after line of fully armed soldiers, and the men of Rohan were beginning to tire. No matter how Éomer rallied them, or how spurred on they were by the presence of their king amongst the throng, there was nothing they could do to battle the fatigue that crept up their spines. Their bodies and minds were tiring, and each new foe was yet to face a real battle.

Hours bled on, so fast that Aragorn did not notice them passing. He did, however, notice the progress of the uruk-hai, and he noticed them swarming against the walls and doors of the inner arena of keep like insects. Hundreds of corpses lay in the outer arena, hundreds of men and boys and orcs, and while men both fought outside and propped the doors from within, the great doors were also finally beginning to bow to the strength of Saruman's army.

Théoden was forced to retreat when a hammer struck his helmet, though he stayed on his own two feet, Aragorn held hope that the king was only dazed. But Háma's head was all but struck from his body as he covered Théoden's retreat, and though he tried, Aragorn was too late to save the loyal door-warden.

Instead, he threw himself into Háma's shoes, aiding Boromir in ushering Théoden to safety. He knew that the knowledge that their leader was secure would hearten the soldiers, especially while they had Éomer, their warrior prince among them still, fighting like a hero of old. As he hung back, driving the uruk's away, he saw Gimli grab Legolas by the waist, all but dragging him past Aragorn and after Théoden, into the inner keep. When Théoden and Legolas were both safely inside, Gimli returned to the outer arena alone, fury etched deep into his face.

"I wanted to beat the elf in numbers," he growled to Aragorn, splitting open an uruk's skull with his axe, "but not because he has not the strength to raise a sword."

Alarmed, Aragorn looked to Gimli. "Does he not?"

Gimli shook his head gravely. "No. His arm broken, badly, and I saw him fall without any help from the orcs. He's in a bad way, Aragorn. I've never seen an elf stumble like that, nor have I ever seen Legolas agree to sit at the side-lines. He's been taken down to the caves. The king's in far better shape."

Aragorn felt as though a great blow had struck his gut, and he swung Anduril with a roar, striking down three uruks at once. The doors were bending more now, bowing deeper – the men on the inside of the keep were wearying, too.

The sky began to pale, making way for a blood-red dawn, and Aragorn began to truly see the extent of their peril.

Rohan was falling – the doors of its keep would take another hour at most, and its soldiers were succumbing to weariness and to despair, where they were not cut down by orcs. Yet the lines of the enemy still extended beyond the wall – still there were hundreds, or maybe even thousands, of uruk-hai who had yet to wet their blades.

Resolve hardened in his heart, and Aragorn grabbed Boromir's shoulder.

"I'll be back," he swore, and then he turned, running into the inner keep. He found Théoden in a dark hall, his face lined with grief but his head unbound, and his posture strong as he stood. "My lord…"

Théoden looked up slowly, like one trapped in a daze.

"The women and children," said Aragorn firmly. "Is there another way out of those caves?" The king did not answer, and Aragorn could have snarled with frustration. "Is there no other way out?"

"No," answered a Captain who had been introduced as Gamling, "There is no other way out. For defence they have great doors, but if we fall, so will they."

"Well then, it would be best if we did not fall," said Aragorn, swallowing his disappointment.

Théoden gave a hollow laugh. "What chance is there of that? What hope could men have against such reckless hate? How could we win such a war?"

"Ride out with me," said Aragorn. His words echoed around the room and he took a step forward. Théoden looked up and met his eyes. "You told me earlier today that if this were to be your end, you would make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance. Now is that time, be it our end or not. Ride out with me, and face them head on. Ride as ever you have, and ever your ancestors before you. Let this be the hour where we draw swords together."

Théoden met his eyes. And drew his sword.

The uruk-hai hollered and jeered as the archers retreated from the tops of the walls, and the final soldiers still fighting in no man's land heeded the blow of the horn and hurried into the inner keep, slipping through hidden doors that the uruk-hai had not surrounded.

The enemy laughed even as they pounded on the doors with grins of glee.

And then the doors burst open, throwing the orcs from through the air, and the riders of Rohan burst forth. With Théoden at their head they charged, cutting a great line through the ranks of Saruman, and slicing down foe after foe as they went. Astride the same horse that Éomer had first lent him, Aragorn thundered down into the throng, his heart pounding in time with the hooves of the horse. Without fear or hesitation, they cut through their foes, riding to what they each knew to be their deaths, but then the sun crested the hill to their right, and there was a great call among the uruk-hai to regroup.

Aragorn stared up the face of the mountain, and his heart leapt at the sight that he saw. Gandalf and Shadowfax were standing atop the mountain, glowing pure white in the light of the sun, and around them and behind them were the cavalry of Rohan. Erkenbrand had come. Raising his sword high into the air, Gandalf let out a battle-cry, and the Rohirrim charged down the hill, their horses unflinching, their weapons at the ready, and they crashed into the line of uruk-hai with a force that sent the army reeling back. And then Théoden began to shout, throwing out words that Aragorn had been sure that he would not hear.

"Victory! We have victory!"

Dawn had come.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, though I still struggle with big battle scenes. I much prefer the next one, so let's get right to it.**


	67. Chapter 67: The Fall of Isengard

**Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Fall of Isengard**

There was a leak somewhere in the cell. It had been driving Bróin mad for hours now, an endless drip, drip, drip that he could not find or stop, a noise that just was, and did not even have the courtesy to be in a consistent rhythm. It would stop for a while, tease Bróin with a few moments of blissful silence, and then it would start again, faster than before, or more uneven, and Bróin would bang his head softly against the wall.

Nelly had not noticed. She was asleep, curled up beneath one of the raggedy blankets with her head in his lap. Even in sleep there were dark circles beneath her eyes, and her fists were tightly clenched. Sighing, Bróin wondered whether it would help to stroke her hair or rub her shoulder, or whether that would just wake her. He longed for a way to ease the tension from her shoulders, to give her the reprieve that sleep leant him, but he did not know how to do it. She slept so lightly, especially now. Especially here.

They had not been fed today. Bróin's stomach was snarling, curling over itself and clawing at his sides, though he was sure that Nelly felt worse. His Adad had told him time and time again about how hobbits needed more to eat than dwarves did, and if they did not get it they could become weak or sick in a matter of days.

In his mind, Bróin saw Nelly shrink, saw her grow skinnier and skinnier till she was nothing but skin and bone, and he saw her struggling to breathe on the ground. If the orcs never came back, if they were left to starve, Nelly would last a week, perhaps. If she was lucky. Bróin would last longer than that. There were tales of a dwarf in the Iron Hills who had fallen down a mine shaft and broken his leg, surviving for two months on nothing but water from a stream nearby. If anything happened to Nelly, Bróin would not last two months. He would not last two days.

Dimly, he heard footsteps, and he sighed again. With any luck, that would be the orc bringing them their evening grog, though it had to be closer to midnight than evening. The footsteps drew nearer, and Nelly began to stir. At first her frown deepened, and then she shifted, her fists rising up to massage her eyes, without unclenching.

"s' happening?" she mumbled.

"Dinner, I hope," replied Bróin, rubbing her shoulder and helping her sit up. "Don't know."

"What time is it?"

"No idea. Night-time, or maybe very early morning. It's been dark for a while."

Nelly nodded, studying Bróin's face. "Did you sleep?"

"Nah." Bróin smiled sheepishly, his stomach grumbling. "Too hungry."

Nelly snorted, massaging her own gut. "Me too."

Silence fell between them, and the footsteps grew louder, until their owner walked around the corner. To Bróin's surprise, it was not an orc, nor one of the larger uruk-hai. It was a man – a stooped, grimy looking man draped in black clothes and lank black hair. He had a pale, almost yellow complexion which would have made Bróin think he may be a prisoner himself, were it not for the tray in his hands, the ring of keys in his fingers, and the glint in his eyes. He looked almost hungry himself, his gaze boring into the hobbit and the dwarf. For a long moment, he said nothing, and then a slow smirk spread across his face.

"And you are?" Nelly drawled, raising an unimpressed eyebrow, and Bróin smirked himself.

"I am right," said the man, his voice soft as a spider. He stooped low and unlocked the trap in the door, sliding in the tray of stale bread and orc draught, and then he locked it again, standing up slowly. His eyes, bulging and pale, bored into them both, and his grin grew. "No one is coming for you."

A chill ran down Bróin's spine, but he injected his tone with the same boredom and derision that Nelly had used. "What are you talking about? And who are you?"

"I am Gríma, soon to be King of Rohan. I have seen your companions," he said, pronouncing the final word as a curse. "They sought two hobbits – no dwarf, or halfling wench. Nobody knows you are here. No one is coming to find you."

"Well, I think the ransom note that old Saruman's sent out will let people know where we are, " reasoned Nelly, and the man looked a little taken aback by her candour. Then he recovered, his smile growing darker.

"Perhaps. But in the meantime, your 'brave' companions march to a battle that will butcher them, having failed in their search for two hobbits whose bones now lie beneath the burnt corpses of a hundred orcs."

"I don't believe you," said Nelly, too quickly. Bróin shifted, touching his knee to hers even as his heart sank down to his stomach. Two hobbits. Two dead hobbits.

"Oh, but you do," said the man, his smile growing. Bróin felt very, very sick. "You know it to be true. Names, I heard given. 'Merry' and 'Pippin,' foolish names for a foolish race. Little people should never meddle in matters bigger than them."

"They're not dead," Nelly spat, and Bróin grabbed her hand.

He was shaking almost as much as she was, and grief was surging through him, scouring painfully through his veins. He could feel tears behind his eyes, feel a sob rise in his throat, but he fought them away. They had to stay composed, to stay smart, to seem unrattled – at least until this snake of a man slid away.

"They are," chanted Gríma, his eyes glinting like carrion beetles. "The horseman of Rohan slayed them with their captors and burnt the corpses together – but you heard this from the orcs. I bring no news, only confirmation of what you already now." The man's smile grew stronger and darker, and he pressed his face against the bars to leer at Nelly. "They are dead, and no one is looking for you. Not Boromir of Gondor, not the Dúnadan ranger, nor the elf, nor even the filthy little dwarf. No one is coming to find you. Your quest is scattered. Your friends are dead, and dying. And you-"

Like a wraith from a dying world, Nelly let out a screech and flung herself at the bars of the cell. The man shrieked and leapt backwards, collapsing to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. A high, maniacal laugh tore from Nelly's throat, and she bared her teeth as she spat at the man.

"That may be true, but even if you kill us all, we will have each other. You could cut each and every one of us down, but we will _always_ find each other, in this world or the next – and _you_ – you have no one, and you never will! You're pathetic, a filthy little slug fighting for the wrong side because your own life is too sad to exist without the support of greater, darker men. You are nothing, you are no one, and no one is there to love you. No one will _ever_ love you, and you will die alone, and when you are dead your soul will rot beside the villains you fought for, always and eternally alone-"

Gríma broke her tirade with a strangled cry, throwing himself at the bars and reaching for her neck, but Nelly darted back, far too quick for him.

"You know nothing!" he hissed, but Nelly just laughed.

"You've told me everything I need to know," she said.

The man opened his mouth, but as he did the room around them trembled and he stumbled back again, staring up in alarm. A loud horn blew, somewhere above them, and at once the man ran down the corridor, disappearing entirely from sight.

A few moments later, Nelly dove forward and flung her arm out through the bars of the door.

"Er, what are you doing, Nell?"

"Shh!" she hissed, retrieving her arm and instead sending her foot through the gap. At once, Bróin looked away – the rags they wore went only to the middle of their thighs. The further Nelly pushed her leg out of the cell, the higher her shirt rose, and Bróin did not want to see anything he should not.

But then he heard something, a clinking, ever so soft, and then the sound of metal scraping gently across stone. Then, Nelly gave a gasp, and scampered back to Bróin's side.

"I did it," she breathed, a huge smile spreading across her cheeks. "Bróin, I did it!" She held her hand out to him, and to his amazement, he saw a ring of dark keys on her palm. "He dropped them when I scared him – I'd been hoping to goad him, get him close enough to lift them, but this, this works too. I did it!"

"You…" Not knowing what to say Bróin threw his arms around her, and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "You beauty!"

She gave a breathless laugh, but then her smile faded, and she stared down at the keys. When she spoke, she sounded like a child. "Bróin… do you… do you think they're really dead?"

Bróin's throat immediately dammed with tears that he could not cry, and he tried to swallow. When that failed, he simply stared at the ground beneath him. He could not answer. He could not tell Nelly that their cousin and her baby brother were dead, but there was little doubt left in his mind. They had no proof that Merry and Pippin were alive, and they had evidence – however circumstantial – that they were dead. The word of the uruk-hai to each other, to Saruman. The word of Gríma – Gríma knowing their names, and having seen the others. The deep, dark pit of a feeling in Bróin's gut. He could not say it – not aloud, not to Nelly, but Bróin had no choice but to believe that Merry and Pippin were gone.

Of course, with Nelly, he did not need to speak.

"Oh," she said, in a voice both soft and broken.

Grief twisting his heart, Bróin went to hug her again, to try and make it hurt a little less, but she put a hand on his chest and shook her head. There were tears on her cheeks and anguish in her eyes, but her jaw was set.

"Later," she whispered. "We grieve later. Drink." She shoved his orc draught at him, in almost the same motion as she downed her own herself. Bróin obeyed, his mind stumbling towards the logic that she had already reached. It would not take long for the man to realise that he had lost the keys. They needed energy to escape, but they had little time. The bread they saved, though Bróin was not sure how they would carry it. If they needed the use of their hands, their teeth would be all that was left.

The moment she finished the drink, Nelly began testing keys, inserting one after the other into the lock that bound her legs together. On the third try she found it, and then quickly freed Bróin's ankles from his own shackles, though it was with a different key.

A tremendous boom rang through the air, shaking the walls around them and pounding against Bróin's ears, and he and Nelly shared a glance. Without a word, Nelly doubled her speed, shuffling through the keys on the ring to find those that would unbind their hands. There was another bang, another crash, and then Bróin's hands were free, and he released Nelly mere seconds later.

"I don't like the chances that the keys to our chains and the door are on the same ring," muttered Bróin, even as he began to try them. To his amazement, the fourth key fit, and turned, and the door swung open at his push.

Nelly grabbed the two bits of bread and Bróin clenched the keys in his fist, and they took a silent step outside of the cell. Feeling like his spine had stiffened into solid steel, Bróin looked down into the dark of the endless corridor to the left, and then again to the right. The right was where the man had gone, and it was the direction they had come from themselves, if Bróin was not mistaken. It was most likely the way out, but they also ran risk of running into the man once more.

As if reading his mind, Nelly murmured, "Let's go right. I'm sure we could take him."

Rather unfond of the idea of blindly travelling deeper into Orthanc Bróin nodded, moving in front of Nelly to take the lead, since he had the keys – the only semblance to a weapon that they had. There was no real light in the corridor either, but Bróin had the eyes of a dwarf, and seeing in the dark was easier for him. He could feel Nelly's hand hovering over the back of his elbow, a sign that she could see little – or nothing at all. Step after quiet step, they snuck down the hall, and with every inch they travelled Bróin's nerves grew tighter, and he found himself holding his breath as he waited for the man to hurry back down the hall, to return for the keys and see them –

But he did not. They reached a door, and after a nod from Nelly Bróin pushed it. It did not budge. He swallowed, and began inserting key after key into the lock, but they were all too small. Not one key fit, and in a panic he threw his weight against it. Nothing.

"It won't budge!" he hissed.

"Let me," Nelly whispered, and Bróin moved out of the way.

"I don't know what else we can-"

The door opened.

"It's a pull door."

"I can see that," grumbled Bróin, leading the way through the door. "Which way now?"

"I don't know…" Nelly paused. "We need to go up. I think."

The walls shook around them with an almighty crash, and Nelly gave a little whimper, seizing Bróin's arm.

"Pick a way," she said, her voice trembling. "Either way, I don't care, let's just go."

Bróin nodded, turning to his right. The corridor seemed to slope down, whereas to his left it arched up. Biting down on his lip, he chose left, and began to hurry up the path. Without any idea of where he was going, or whether or not he was heading in the right direction Bróin hurried on, until he came to a room that was very familiar. It was the circular room, the one with eight identical doors, and sixteen burning torches.

"Which door now?" asked Bróin, chewing the dead skin from his lips as Nelly blinked against the light.

"Well, uh-" She stopped, her eyes fixing on the door to their left. Her ears twitched, and she went pale. "Orcs!"

Bróin swallowed, turning to the door beside theirs. It was locked, as was the next door, and the next, and they were neither push nor pull. Nelly grabbed at one of the torches, but it would not budge from its bracket, and Bróin stared at the useless keys in his hand. They would not protect them long. In desperation, he wrenched open the fourth door, and found himself staring at the man from the cell. The man's mouth dropped open, and Bróin yelped, slamming the door on his face.

"Wrong door, wrong door!"

"Here!" Nelly cried from across the room, and Bróin darted over, making it through the door as the man stumbled through into the chamber. Heart in his throat, Bróin raced after Nelly as she darted up a flight of steep, spiralling stairs. He could not hear whether or not the man was following, but either way they could not slow. If they were caught, they would be killed, or worse. Of that, Bróin was sure.

Dimly, he became aware of noises drifting in from outside, shouts of battle from uruks, and odd, moaning sounds, like the groans of trees in the wind. Had someone dared to attack Isengard? Who?

As they fled up the stairs, Nelly shot past a small window, but the air from outside seemed to snatch at Bróin and he hesitated, peering outside for a look at what was going on.

Trees. There were trees attacking the tower, or at least large, tree like creatures, large and strong as trolls. They were hurling huge rocks and chunks of rubble at the walls of Orthanc, and they were ripping the buildings of the orcs up like weeds. Bróin's jaw dropped open and he stared as the orcs took their swords to these creatures, leaving no mark at all.

"Bróin!"

He jolted, looking up at Nelly. She was pale faced and panting, staring down at him incredulously. He nodded, and stepped up, but out of the corner of his eye he saw something hurtling towards them, and his heart seized.

"Nelly!" he yelped, but it was too late.

A boulder the size of a troll's head crashed into the side of the tower, and the moment it made impact Bróin was thrown backwards down the stairs. His feet flew over his face and his back smashed into the wall, sending a burst of stars before his eyes. He gasped to try and regain his breath, blinking the stars away to see an enormous, gaping hole in the wall above him. The great boulder was wedged into the stairs.

The stairs where Nelly had been.

Now, Nelly was not there.

Too afraid to scream, too shocked to notice his pain, Bróin crawled back up the stairs, desperately, breathlessly, and fell against the boulder.

"Nelly," he whispered, and his bare foot touched something soft. He looked down, too afraid to breathe, and saw a single roll of stale bread rocking softly on the floor.

Terror coursed through him, terror and anguish so intense that he could not breathe. Nelly could not – she could not – if she –

The gut-wrenching, soul scarring grief that had accompanied the thought of Merry and Pippin's deaths was nothing to this, nothing to the thought that he was alone, and that Nelly, his Nelly, was gone.

 _"Bróin?"_

He froze, his eyes burning with tears, and strained his ears. Had he imagined it, or had he heard it? Had her heard her?

 _"Bróin!"_

It came again, her voice, Nelly's voice, from far away. So far away, but so desperate and frightened. Almost as desperate and frightened as he was.

 _"Bróin!"_

"Nelly?" he called, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and stumbled to the edge of the stairs, to where the wall had fallen away entirely, and he looked down. " _Nelly_!"

She was twenty feet below him, but it was not the ground beneath her – by some miracle, Nelly had landed in a cart full of what looked like straw or hay, or something of that ilk. She was not crushed, or crumpled and broken on the ground – she was alive, she was standing, and she looked up, her shoulders sagging in relief when she saw Bróin. She scrambled out of the cart and waved her hand at him, before looking over her shoulders at the carnage going on behind her.

It was a true battlefield, there was no doubt about it, and it looked like the uruk-hai were losing, but while Nelly gaped, Bróin had already spied the chaos through the window, and he had other priorities.

Later, Bróin would admit that he had done a rather stupid thing, but in that moment, his relief and his fear and his desperation were so strong that he did not stop to think. Bróin backed up to the wall, and then ran, flinging himself out into the air. He heard Nelly scream as he plummeted down, but hasty as he was his aim was true, and he landed on his back in the cart of hay.

Even with the breath knocked out of him, Bróin scrambled up, tumbling out of the cart and seizing Nelly into his arms.

"Why did you, did you do that?" she stuttered angrily, trying to push him away. "Bróin, you, you could have killed yourself, we can't afford to panic now, we have to go-"

"I thought you were dead!" he whimpered, holding her closer. "Nelly, I thought, I thought-"

For a moment, Nelly did not speak, but she softened slightly, and squeezed his arm. "Breathe, Bro," she murmured sadly, pulling away and putting her hands on his cheeks. "I'm here. I'm not hurt, but we _have_ to move, we can't fall apart now."

He shuddered, but he knew that she was right and he let her go. She gave a weak smile and took his hand, weaving her fingers through his.

"Let's just get out of here, alright?"

He nodded, blinking against the tears and trying to clear his brain. Nelly was right – they had no time panic. If they wanted to get out alive, they had to keep their wits about them, but Nelly was ahead of him.

"We must be near the stables," she reasoned, walking slowly toward the right. "We need to get to the gates, it's the only way out and this is the best distraction we're going to get – down!" Nelly dropped to the ground and Bróin dropped with her, narrowly avoiding another large boulder that crashed into the base of the tower.

Nelly swore beneath her breath and they scrambled to their feet, sprinting along the side of the tower. "What _are_ those things?"

Bróin shook his head, tightening his grip on her hand. "I don't know. Watch out!" He tugged them both backwards, pressing his back against the tower as a pack of uruk-hai spilled out from a nearby door. Breathless, they waited, and then they ran on, hand in hand, hoping beyond hope that they might reach escape.

It was like no battlefield Bróin had ever imagined, with the trees advancing mercilessly, crushing and kicking and ripping apart the orcs. They were outnumbered, but clearly outmatched the orcs – at least until the flaming arrows began to fly.

Bróin watched as one found its mark in the back of one of the trees, and a great screech like splitting wood tore apart the air. Though he feared the great trees, and believed them just as pressing a danger as the orcs, Bróin could not help but feel sorry for the creature as it writhed in obvious pain, but then they ran around the tower and out of sight. There, another glow of orange light caught his eye – a light from a building with an open door, and a glimpse of familiar stalls inside.

"Nell, stables!" he cried. "There may be a horse!"

She nodded, and they sprinted for the small building. The second they burst through the door, and saw the only occupied stall, Bróin's jaw dropped.

"Uh, Bróin," said Nelly slowly, "that's not a horse…"

"No," he said, his voice higher than usual. "No, it is not."

The warg before them growled and snarled, but when it lunged for them it was pulled back, its reins bound by chain to the wall. There was a saddle on its back, and it looked as though someone had been interrupted while readying to ride. A mad idea took form in Bróin's head, and he glanced at Nelly.

"We could…"

"No better plan," she agreed, slowly opening the stall and gesturing to the right. "You go that way, if we divide his attention it'll be easier to mount."

Bróin nodded, but releasing her hand felt like thrusting his head bellow water and holding it there. Holding his breath, he crept around to the side of the warg, which growled and snarled, looking left and right and raising its hackles.

With a nod, Nelly ran forward, and Bróin ran from the other side, and they leapt astride the beast, which let out a furious howl and thrashed madly. Nelly, who had ended up in front of Bróin and the saddle, nearly slid off, but Bróin reached around her and seized the reins. The moment that he pulled them tight, the warg stilled, and Nelly untied the reins from the chain attaching them to the wall.

Taking a deep breath, Bróin dug his heels in and flicked the reins, and at once the warg burst out of the barn with a speed that almost de-seated Nelly again. Bróin wrapped an arm around her and tugged her up onto the saddle. She held his arm tightly for a moment, and then put her arms behind her, wrapping them around Bróin's waist for better grip.

"Left!" she yelped suddenly, and Bróin tugged the reins. The warg changed direction so fast that Bróin felt almost dizzy, and the giant hunk of rubble passed harmlessly by them. "Now right, right! The gates are that way!"

"Alright!" Bróin yelled back, steering a little more gently in the other direction. The warg obeyed, speeding in a straight line towards the gates, but the fighting was more intense there, and Bróin scoured the wall for another way out.

"Oh, Mahal," Nelly choked, and Bróin followed her gaze to the left. There were more of the great trees were up the valley, by a great, stone dam, breaking it apart with branches and rocks, and Bróin could see exactly where the water was going to go.

If they did not get out of Isengard, they were going to drown.

"Hang on!" he said, gritting his teeth and steering away from the gate, to the left. There was a hole in the wall, a hole that was unguarded, that they could slip through, but it took them closer to the dam.

"What are you doing?" Nelly shrieked, as water began to burst from the stone, and a great wave swelled towards them.

"Faster, come on, come on, just a bit faster," Bróin begged the warg, flicking the reins again, and it sped up until Bróin felt like he was flying. The great wall of water crashed down, corpses and stones and debris already caught up in its wave, and Nelly closed her eyes, turning her head away. Bróin wrapped one arm tightly around her, wrapping the rein around his other wrist, but as the first spray hit his face the warg leapt up, vaulting through the hole that the trees had wrought in the wall. A tree reached for them, but missed, and they landed on the dirt outside Isengard with a skid.

A wild laugh tearing from his throat, Bróin flicked the rein again, rubbing the neck of the warg appreciatively. "Good boy, good boy! Keep going, that's it!"

"By Mahal," Nelly whispered breathlessly, looking over her shoulder. "That was – was – we're out, Bróin, we're _out!"_

He laughed again, holding her tighter, but then the reality sunk in around him. They had escaped, but they were not out of danger. They had no food, no water, no weapons. They were not out of reach of the Saruman or the orcs, nor were they out of range of the trees. They had no idea where they were going.

And Merry and Pippin were dead.

"What… what do we do now?" he asked hollowly, feeling like the wave had crashed into him after all. "Nell, if – where do we go? If…"

"If Merry and Pi… Pip…" Nelly broke off, bowing her head and sniffing. She did not finish her brother's name. "There's nothing we can do for them. We, we have to help Frodo."

"Right," Bróin sniffed, wiping his nose on his shoulder. "To Frodo. Somehow."

"Saruman s-said these wargs can ride f-faster," Nelly said, the wobble in her voice growing stronger even as she reasoned. She cleared her throat. "Faster than others, all others. If we, if we head south, head towards Mordor – if he wasn't lying we might, might catch them."

"But how do we find them?"

"Ith-Ithilien, remember?" she said. Her whole body was trembling now. "If we couldn't get through the Black Gate, we were going to look for another way, no? W-well, we always said Ithilien would be the safest place to head for, so we go there. Worst comes worst, and we cannot find them, we can go to Gondor. Help the war there."

"Alright," Bróin breathed. "Ithilien it is." He did not say aloud that Ithilien was a big place, or that their chances of finding two sneaking hobbits was as slim as their chances of not starving on the way. He did not say aloud that his heart was breaking, and his hope bleeding out of him in buckets. Instead, he said, "Nell? If you want, I'll take first shift."

"Shift?"

"You – you can break down now, if you want. You… if you need to cry… It's your turn to give in, Nell."

She looked over her shoulder at him, and then shifted around in the saddle so that she was facing him. Tears were flooding her cheeks, but she reached up and wiped Bróin's tears, instead. Then she leant against him, wrapping her arms around him. "I love you, Bróin."

"I love you too," he whispered, resting his cheek on her head. He felt her shudder, and then begin to sob, her cheek pressed against his shoulder. He heard her wail softly, felt her chest rise and fall against his with bitter sobs, felt his shirt become hot and wet with her tears.

And as she rested her chin on Bróin's shoulder and let herself cry for Merry, and for her little Pippin, Nelly looked back at Isengard. Silhouetted against the sun, she could see one of the great trees standing on the wall, two small figures she assumed to be orcs still clinging from its branches.

If grief had not clouded her eyes, she might have recognised the curly head of her brother, as Peregrin Took punched the air in victory.

 **I feel really quite mean now, but hey, they're all alive for now, even if Nelly and Pippin missed each other by inches :D I hope you enjoyed that chapter, it was a lot of fun (if devastating at times) to write. As I said, I hope to get your next one up on Monday the 17th, so with luck I will see you then. Please do let me know what you think – it would be good to know that I haven't lost people's interest after such a break.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and have a lovely day!**


	68. Chapter 68: The Aftermath of Battle

**Apologies for the delay again! It's been another busy week. Thank you for the lovely feedback from those of you that had the time, and as ever please forgive my inevitable typos.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Eight: The Aftermath of Battle**

The elves would not let them near Kíli. Tauriel had taken only a moment to assess the situation before declaring that it was too dangerous to move him, even to the safety of the Woodland Realm. Instead, she had called on three additional elven healers and ordered Bilbo and Kíli away.

"We need space, you are in the way," she had said, "I promise you, I will call if anything changes, but you need to give us space, and time. Make sure that the area is secure, and you will do more to help Kíli."

But the area was secure – the elven army had formed a living wall of guards around where the battlefield had been, and inside the ring, their healers were attending every injury they could find. Even Nori had received some elven attention, receiving a bandage and a vial of pain tonic injured arm, and he was regaining colour, and back on his feet. He was helping Ehren, Bofur and Bragi to collect wood.

And to build the funeral pyres.

The rest of the elves were helping those Beornings still on their feet, collecting the bodies of the dead. Bilbo and Fíli helped where they could, putting pressure on wounds and stacking wood, but Bilbo could barely think straight, and he was sure that Fíli was doing little better. Fumbling through fear, Bilbo tried to make himself useful, but his mind and heart were with Kíli, and the terror of not knowing that was happening to his son was eating Bilbo whole – though at least he knew now that he had made the right decision in turning back.

It had been the very first group of evacuees from Wilderland who had raised the alarm. After a skirmish with a pack of orcs during their flight to Mirkwood they were not content to wait beyond the fourth path, and instead sped to Thranduil's halls with all the haste they could muster. When he heard their plight, the elven king sent out an army to retrieve the other refugees, and a battalion of five hundred to assist the Beornings. Tauriel had been their leader, and they had met Bilbo's party before the edge of Mirkwood.

The hobbit had had five minutes to make up his mind as to whether he would march with the elves or accompany Dís to Mirkwood, and it tore at his heart to have to choose, but she was as certain as he was that he had to find their sons. He had to find their boys, and bring them back. So he had left Dís in the care of Vinca and Glóin and the elves, and allowed himself to get swept up into the ranks of the elves, with Bofur ever loyal at his side.

And they had been too late. They had reached the battle too late for so many of the Beornings, and too late to save Kíli. The thought that Kíli could still perish, that he could become paralysed or comatose – it did not bear thinking about, but Bilbo could do nothing to stop the thoughts from haunting him.

For hours, the elves worked on Kíli, keeping his family away, but at last they called Fíli and Bilbo over. Kíli was lying on a stretcher, beneath a heavy blanket, his eyes closed and a look of peace on his face. Bilbo's heart tripped over itself as he fell to his knees at Kíli's side.

"Why, why is he asleep?" croaked Fíli, his voice raw. "He's concussed, he shouldn't – he shouldn't be sleeping."

"It's alright," said Tauriel, kneeling on Kíli's other side. "We have administered a draught that helps to ease concussion, he is not in any danger from that. The blow to his head was severe, yes, but it no longer threatens him with death. If we are able to continue with the draught I spoke of and the poultice we've applied, it is likely that the head wound will case him no lasting trouble."

Bilbo sighed, relief rising within him as one of his worries was eased. But the greater worry swelled within him, and at his side Fíli began to tremble.

"What…" Bilbo cleared his throat, but still his voice was shaking. "What about his back? Tauriel…"

She bowed her head in a slow nod, looking sadly down at the young dwarf. "It is broken. The bone itself has certainly been broken, and perhaps some of the nerves within the spine as well. We do not know. This… this will be hard to hear."

Fíli looked up quickly and Bilbo shivered, squeezing his older son's arm tightly.

"Is he going to die?" Fíli whispered, desperately, "Tauriel, please-"

"No – at least he will not unless something else goes wrong. But, it seems that his legs are paralysed."

"Paralysed?" whispered Bilbo, unable to understand though he well knew the meaning of the word.

"Yes," said the elf softly. "I am so sorry. It may be caused only by the swelling around the wound – in that case he could regain feeling in a matter of weeks, and movement in months. But it could also be more severe than that. If the spine itself is broken, only the Valar will be able to tell if he will ever walk again."

Fíli made a noise like a wounded beast, an odd mix of a sob and a groan and a wail, and he buried his head in his hands.

But despite the tears in his eyes and the anguish in his heart, Bilbo did not cry. Instead, he took a deep breath. "Perhaps he might not walk – but he will live? He will survive this?"

Tauriel nodded, a tearful smile of her own pulling into place. "Yes, I believe he will." She pulled back the blanket that lay over Kíli, revealing that he had been bound tightly to the stretcher, his arms pinned at his sides. "This is all we can do to stop his back from moving before we get to Mirkwood. It is crude, but it will hold. There are splints beneath and between the bandages, to keep him straight and still. But they cannot be loosened or removed. If Kíli's back is twisted, or moved just a fraction in the wrong way, he could lose feeling and mobility in every limb – or worse. We could lose him entirely."

Fíli whimpered, leaning into Bilbo's side. Bilbo's arm wove around him, and he pressed a hand to his own mouth.

"As I said, I do not think that that will be his fate – we have bound him well, and he is very strong. But we must be careful. Very careful."

The sun began to set, spilling blood red light out over the mountains. Across the bloodied battlefield, the elves were still tending to the last survivors of the Beornings. There were around fifty of them, including those who had been too injured to fight, and who had spent the battle hiding in the woods. Less than half of those who had dared to join the lighting parties and set fire to the forest had survived, but of the seventy who had fought in the battle there were yet forty odd fighters alive.

Thirty had been slain, but to Bilbo's amazement, that the majority of those who survived were the youngest of the warriors, those too young to be there by any rights. Then he thought of Jago, and his amazement drained away into sorrow. There was nothing more like the Beornings – and nothing more like Beorn himself – than protecting those too small to protect themselves. Bilbo did not doubt that many a warrior had been felled that day when he might have survived, had he not used his body as a shield for the young ones.

The bodies of the dead had all been gathered now, and Bragi, Bofur, Nori and Ehren finished their labour of creating four great pyres.

A hush descended on the field as Grimbeorn stood up, transforming almost silently into the form of a bear. He crouched down, sliding his great arms beneath the corpse of his brother in law. Then, Grimbeorn lifted Jago up, stumbling but unflinching as he strode step by step to the pyre. He laid Jago's body upon the waiting wood, and then let out an echoing roar of aching grief that pierced all who heard it.

But then he stopped, and stood back, and returned to the form of a man. One of the elves offered him a cloak and he took it, draping it over his shoulders. Turning, he drew his shoulders back and his chin up high, and for the first time Bilbo saw him as a leader, and not as a brave but frightened teenage boy.

"This day feels darker than any I have ever felt," he declared, his voice rolling loudly over the clearing. He captured the attention of every coherent soul, and Bilbo found himself holding his breath as the young skin-changer spoke. "We have lost so many today. My sister, and my brother. My cousins, my friends. We have lost warriors and we have lost children, and we are mostly children ourselves. Or we were – I fear childhood will not long outlast the memory of this day. We have seen more death and blood and destruction than our fathers and mothers every wished us to see, and we have known despair greater than anything I have ever dreamed of knowing. But as dark as it feels, this is not a dark day."

Beside Bilbo, Fíli raised his head, an incredulous look on his face, and it seemed that his incredulity was shared in the murmurs that ran over the crowd like the water of a shallow lake lapping over your feet.

"I promise you," said Grimbeorn, his voice trembling with emotion. "It is not. For this day, despite all the odds that we knew, despite all the fears in our hearts, we won the fight. Our friends came to our aid, our allies come to our sides with an army larger than we could ever have asked for. Today, we destroyed the wolves of Isengard, and we crushed every living soul that Saruman sent our way. Today, we survived a massacre intended to kill us all. Today we learnt that our children and our injured are safe – that every group we sent north has arrived safely in Thranduil's halls – that the elf king has offered us sanctuary. Today we discovered that our people will survive. We found out that we will not be stamped out of history, that our country will not perish in its infancy! We are not a warring people, and we do not seek out battles or glory, but we are warriors all the same and today we have won our right to live in this world – this world that we were born into, that we live from. This world that will _not_ be overrun by darkness and despair. Not today. Because today we are alive, and while we mourn we will know that those who died gave their lives for the greatest cause. Those who died have bought the safety of our people. Our children will live, and remember this day. Because of this day, they will have a chance to have children of their own. We will carry the legacy of our dead not as a burden, but as an honour. They will not be forgotten, and history will show that even after the death of Beorn, the Beornings live on."

A great roar burst from the crowd, a sound so loud and raw that it was impossible to tell man from beast, but it was a roar that sent a shiver down Bilbo's spine, even as his own sound of agreement was blocked by the lump in his throat. Around him, the Beornings punched the air and stamped their feet, showing even more support for the young leader than Bilbo had seen in the walk up to battle. They loved him, and had loved his speech – indeed, Bilbo had thought that it was fantastic. Rousing, heart lifting. But it broke Bilbo's heart that a man so young had been forced to give such a speech, on a field of war that had claimed his parents and his siblings alike. It broke his heart that there were children among the dead and the injured, that his own son, though not a child, was lying among them.

His own son, who might never walk again.

"Come now," Grimbeorn declared. "It is time to lay the dead to rest, and light the fires to guide them on. Then we must leave, but I swear it will not be forever. We will grow, and grow strong in the mercy of our allies and the iron in our veins. Years it might take, but there will be a day when we are strong enough to reclaim our home – a day when our soldiers are warriors by choice. For now, we will shelter in the hospitality of the elves. We cannot afford to delay. Let us say farewell to our kin. Then, we must go."

A ripple of assent ran over the crowd, a muted murmur beside the bellow of before, and people began to move, slowly carrying what bodies they could towards the fire. Some, Bilbo realised, with a twang of pain, would remain behind, dead on the paths they fled down. Thana, and the people that had followed her. People like Edith, the fox triplet that had joined them at Dol Guldur. Her siblings were nearby, hollow eyed, but they had smiled a little, and roared with the others at Grimbeorn's words. As Bilbo watched, they both took knives to their hair, cutting several long locks, which the laid upon the pyre beside Jago.

Beside him, Fíli took a deep breath and stood up. His hands were shaking, and he was still pale, but resolution wrought his jaw.

"Grimbeorn is right," he said in a low, shaking voice. "We cannot fall apart. It would be an insult too those who weren't so lucky."

Bilbo looked up, a little surprised at this. He had been fully expecting to have to scrape Fíli up off the ground when the time came to move on. For as long as Bilbo had known him, Fíli had been unable to cope any time Kíli injured himself, especially when Kíli was not awake to watch him panic. But Fíli did not look on the verge of panic. His fear and pain were locked in his eyes, but did not escape into his posture, or onto his face. He looked strong, and resolute. He looked like Grimbeorn – a young leader who was refusing to bow to the weight of a world on his shoulders.

Bilbo nodded, the lump in his throat growing. He stood and threw his arms around Fíli, who hugged him back fiercely. Then, they pulled apart.

"Go," said Bilbo. "Help with the dead. I will watch Kíli."

"Good," said Fíli, looking at his brother with a flash of fear. "Don't leave him alone, Bilbo."

Bilbo tutted, swatting Fíli lightly on the shoulder, before putting his palm gently on the older dwarf's cheek. "You know I never will. I'll never leave either of you alone."

Fíli smiled sadly, and then he bowed, and strode off to help with collecting the dead. Three times there rose startled calls announcing a pulse or a breath, and the elves descended upon them like bees on a lavender bush. Within a matter of minutes, all three of these thought-to-be corpses were breathing, and no longer bleeding. And within an hour, those who were truly dead had been laid upon the pyres.

A hush fell over them again, and Bilbo stood at Kíli's side. It felt disrespectful to sit.

This time, when Grimbeorn spoke, his voice wavered. "Let everyone say what they must."

There was a beat, and then the Beornings all began talking at once, murmuring over each other. Murmuring to their dead.

"Thank you," Bilbo whispered into the sound. "I'm so sorry."

Slowly, the sound tapered away, but it was not until the final person had finished speaking that Grimbeorn stepped forward, and took a flaming torch from the elves.

"We will not stay to watch them burn. We are in danger here." The skin-changer took a deep breath, and then nodded. "Farewell, my friends."

He laid the torch down upon the pyre and at once it set to light, flames licking at the wood and sending smoke curling into the sky.

Tauriel let out a low whistle, and the steeds of the elves came marching out of the forest in a perfectly straight line. Great horses from Rohan and the surrounding lands, they had borne Tauriel and her guards to the battle, though elves rarely had cavalries, and even more rarely rode their steeds into battle. Now, Bilbo was glad of it, for the elves took control, leading the Beornings to the horses. Those such as the fox siblings and the dwarves were too small to ride a horse alone, so they rode in pairs, and Bilbo found himself seated behind Fíli. He was not complaining. It helped his heart to hold at least one of his sons.

Those who were too injured to ride were borne on stretchers by the elves, and Tauriel herself was helping to carry Kíli. Every few hours, they would swap with other elves, passing the injured to fresh carriers. Many of the elves were on their own feet, for their own horses were laden with wounded animals, as well as two-legged fighters, and the beasts of the Beornings were being offered the relief of carrying no weight but their own.

Indeed, some of the elven horses were laden with injured animals, who did not even have the strength to hold themselves. There were wounded dogs resting on the laps of their owners, or strapped gently to saddles, and exhausted cats slumping over the necks of horses. In fact, the more he looked around, the more creatures Bilbo saw, and he realised that none were being left behind, and that many seemed to have fought in the battle. He saw voles and rats and weasels with the black blood of the orcs around their tiny jaws, and he saw stout badgers waddling along wearily with their kits on their backs, and orc blood still clinging to their claws.

There was a small herd of deer, the bucks with blood on their antlers and the does with bloodied skulls, where they had been ramming the enemy even without horns. There were fawns, too, and smaller creatures. Fox cubs tucked into the saddle-bags of horses, squabbling with kittens. A family of squirrels sitting on the neck, ears and head of a horse. Rabbits, snoozing in the pockets of riding Beornings.

When they had ridden through the night, and through the better part of the day, the elves deemed it safe to stop and rest, and Bilbo took the opportunity to ask Grimbeorn about the young animals there.

"Well, some are what your people would call 'pets' – many of the cats and the dogs live in our houses as family. The ponies and goats and cows too – and many of the other animals. But others are wild by nature, and do not do well indoors. These are merely our friends – some who stayed for loyalty. Most, in fact, stayed for loyalty. Some lived closer to where the battle took place – the deer, for example. They could have fled, should have fled, but when they saw what was going on, they hid their fawns in the thickets and they came to our aid. Others did the same. All the young are the cubs of those who lived nearby and chose to fight. Wildcats, foxes, badgers… I never thought I would see the day when a rabbit fought in a war. They have every right to come with us now."

"Oh, I don't doubt that at all. Though I am not surprised that so many sweet creatures fought for you. As someone that was called a bunny by your father, I can say with certainty that it takes nothing less than love to make a rabbit go to war," said Bilbo, stroking Kíli's hair gently. Still bound to his stretcher, Kíli was yet to wake, but Tauriel had promised Bilbo that there was no cause for worry.

Grimbeorn smiled slightly. "Yes. Mordor will flee when a bunny goes to war."

Bilbo laughed slightly, and as he did, Kíli stirred, turning his head slightly to lean into the hobbit's touch. At once, fear shot into Bilbo's heart. "Tauriel, his head, his neck!" he said, a swell of horror coming over him. Had the elves overlooked something? Could Kíli die from turning to look at his father?

"It is alright, Bilbo." Tauriel's voice was soothing, and she smiled a little, despite the weariness carved onto her face. "See the ribbon there? About his neck? If will stop him if he jolts, or tries to move his neck far enough to do any damage. As long as he is gentle and slow, he will do no harm. Even if he tries, it will be difficult to hurt himself."

Bilbo nodded breathlessly. "Thank you. Thank you, Tauriel."

At that moment, Fíli, Bragi, and Ehren returned from fetching bowls of elven broth, and Ehren snorted as he saw Bofur and Nori snoring on the ground.

"All the more for me," he said, laying their bowls down before them.

It had taken Bofur less than two minutes to fall to sleep, and Nori's eyes seemed to have closed in a matter of seconds. He had lost a fair bit of blood in the battle, so though the cut was clean enough and healing well, Bilbo decided to wake Nori up and make sure that he ate his dinner. It would not do to gamble with low blood sugar, on top of everything else.

That said, the last time that Bilbo had woken Nori unexpectedly he had been sucker punched in the throat, so he decided to wait until he had finished his own food first, in case Nori upturned it.

Though, for one in his life, Bilbo did not feel very hungry. He certainly did not feel full – he felt empty, a sort of empty that no amount of food could fix. But then he saw Fíli picking at his food, and Bilbo knew that that would not do. He raised his bowl to his lips and began to drink, prodding Fíli with his toe and raising his eyebrows meaningfully. Fíli rolled his eyes, but a small smile graced his lips as he began to drink his broth. Bilbo's own stomach churned as he drained his own bowl, but he ignored it stubbornly.

Kíli moaned, and Bilbo jumped, the bowl tumbling from his grasp as his son's lips parted. "Bil…Bilbo…"

"I'm here," Bilbo said at once, putting a hand on Kíli's forehead. "I'm here, my boy, I'm here. I'm here, Kíli."

Slowly, Kíli's eyes fluttered open, a haze over them as he tried to focus on Bilbo. "Bilbo…" he mumbled again, though now there was a little relief in his voice. "Wha'… where…?"

"We're on the way to Mirkwood," said Bilbo gently. "The elves are helping us."

"Oh," Kíli mumbled, and his eyes closed, and they got little more out of him that day.

By the time darkness began to fall, and the elves packed up camp, Kíli was already slumbering again. He had not eaten anything, but Tauriel assured Bilbo that was not a problem. That soon, Kíli would be able to stomach a small bowl of broth. The next day, when they rested again, Kíli was a little more coherent, and he was able to eat a little – or be fed a little.

Bilbo had not yet had the heart to tell Kíli why he had to be spoon fed, why his arms were bound to his sides, why he had been so tightly secured to the splints and the stretcher. And Kíli did not ask, again seeming to find it hard to concentrate. He asked after Jago, again, and again they told him that the great bear was dead. He asked for his mother, and Bilbo repeated that she was safe, and explained about meeting the elves half-way to Mirkwood.

It was not until the third day, when they were under the very eaves of the forest, that Bilbo and Fíli were able to bring themselves to tell Kíli the severity of his wounds. Tauriel helped, explaining all she had told to Bilbo and Fíli, and all the while Kíli stayed quiet. Very quiet. He was silent for a long while after they all finished talking, but then he looked to Tauriel.

"But I am not going to die?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not unless you cut yourself loose and attempt one of those ridiculous twisting flips that you dwarves call 'dancing.'"

Kíli snorted. "Well, there go my plans for the evening…" He paused, a thoughtful look passing over his face. "So my legs… I'll never feel them again?"

The smile slid from Tauriel's cheeks. "That – that is a possibility."

"And it's also possible that I will – that I might walk again?"

"If it is, it will take time, a long time – but yes," she said.

Kíli nodded thoughtfully. "Alright… Will I-" he blushed slightly, and for the first time looked away from Tauriel as he spoke. "Be able to visit the bathroom without, y'know…"

The elf's smile returned, and she nodded. "I should think so, from what we were able to tell when we bound you. We shall have to rebind you in Mirkwood, but then we should be able to free your hands. It appears that your legs, and only your legs, have been affected by the paralysis. In that, you are very lucky."

"Aye," Kíli agreed. "Well, that's not so bad."

Beside him, Fíli choked on his stew. "Not so bad?" he spluttered.

Kíli smiled softly, tilting his head towards his brother. "I'll live, Fee. I still be able to talk, and if we make it home I can get a wheelchair, like Tove, the jeweller, you know? I have my hands, my arms, my head – and maybe I will walk again someday. I hope that I will, I really do. But I have that chance. I can't-" he choked, showing the first sign of distress since they had begun talking. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and continued. "I cannot lie here, and weep and wail about what has happened when Bolin has lost any chance of his legs healing. If he ever manages to walk again, it will not be on his own legs. He has no chance – but I do. And I cannot… I can't… I chose this."

Bilbo felt very cold. "You what?"

Kíli gave a sad smile. "I didn't, I don't mean – when the orcs came upon us in the Battle of the Five Armies, I was not prepared. I fought because there was no other choice, but I didn't – I didn't know what to do, or how to how to process what was going on. I know better now. And I fought because I was willing to lay down my life, if I had to. This – all of this – seems a little price, compared to what others had to pay."

There was a beat, and then Ehren gave a snort. "You are far too bloody noble, Kíli Baggins."

Kíli gave a little laugh, and even Bilbo smiled, stroking his son's hair once more. Kíli looked up at him, his eyes still so wide, still so innocent after everything that they had seen.

"I don't know," he murmured. "Just seems like a better way of coping?"

It was almost a question, and Bilbo nodded, smiling even as tears crept from his eyes. "Yes, Kíli. I think it is. I'm very proud of you."

The following night, they reached the Woodland Realm. As soon as they did, Tauriel whisked Kíli and the other injured away to the healing halls, leaving those on their feet to follow the other elves through to a large chamber, where it seemed the refugees who had fled earlier had been waiting.

Squeals of joy and cries of relief rang through the air as children saw their parents, and wives their husbands and parents their children. Bilbo's eye was almost taken out by the hand of a six-year-old girl who flung into her mother's arms beside him, and he smiled even as he steeled himself. The crying would follow next, and the screams of disbelief and anguish. His eyes fell on Aeron, clinging Emblyn's hand, scanning the crowd for parents that would not appear.

"Bilbo! Fíli!"

Relief instantly washed through Bilbo a warm, beautiful wave, and he turned just in time to be engulfed in the arms of his wife. Dís held him close, and clutched at Fíli with her other hand, but then she paused, and pulled away. Her eyes flickered between them, and horror broke onto her face.

"Kíli-"

"Is alive," said Bilbo quickly, taking her arm. "He's alive, and he's – well, he's alright from the waist upwards."

"What?" Dís rasped, looking desperately at Fíli. "What happened, why – where is he?"

"In the healing halls," said Fíli. "He… he broke his back, Ama."

Dís went very pale. "His back?"

"But he's awake and alert and the concussion is gone now," said Bilbo. "And, somehow he's in good spirits."

Dís moaned dropping her face into her hands. Bilbo wrapped his arms around her, feeling her stomach press into his own. The baby was getting bigger.

"Come," she said, pressing her lips together in a clear attempt to stop them from shaking. There were tears glistening in her eyes, but she put on a smile and took Bilbo's hand. "We're over here."

She led them to the far corner of the room, a little way away from most of the Beornings. Vinca and Glóin were sitting with their backs to a wall with a young, hobbit sized girl with red hair that Bilbo had never seen before. She was talking rather intently to Glóin, while Vinca watched, her knees tucked up to her chest. She looked younger than she had in years, with her chin resting on her knees and her eyes round and worried. But when she looked up and saw Dís leading the others over, she gasped and leapt to her feet.

"You're back! Thank the Valar! Wait – where's Kíli?"

"In the Healing Halls," said Bilbo, trying to make his voice as soothing as possible. "He's broken his back but he's doing alright."

"What?" Vinca went very pale, looking from Bilbo to Fíli to Dís.

"Let's sit down," said Dís, taking Vinca's hands and sitting down. "Oh, and Bilbo, this is Inni, Emblyn's cousin. She was the one who took Glóin's message to Thorin."

The red-head smiled a little. "Hello. Thank you for what you are doing for my family."

"Oh," said Bilbo, smiling a little himself. "Hello. Thank you for what you have done for ours."

Inni nodded her head and stood up, rolling her neck. "I am going to report to Grimbeorn – unless-" She cut off, fixing Bilbo with a piercing stare.

Bilbo shook his head slightly. "No, Grimbeorn is unhurt."

Inni bowed her head and walked away, and Glóin gave a small smile.

"The elves found her making her way back to Wilderland, but Beornings were already here. Glad they were, I'm glad she's alright. Must admit I worried, sending a little lass like that to the mountain alone," he said. "So – what happened?"

With a heavy heart, Bilbo listened to Nori recount the journey to Dol Guldur, and the burning that had happened there. As he spoke of the battle, the sounds of sobbing broke through the room, and Bilbo's stomach squirmed at the cries of newly orphaned children, and new widows. Of families and friends that were newly grieving.

By the time they finished the tale, the worst of the crying was over. Sniffing and sobbing had taken its place, and keening. Bilbo saw more than one child shift into the form of an animal and curl into a tiny ball, or cling to dogs or deer for support.

An elf stood at the door, one that Bilbo did not know, and called, "Family of Adeyard the Brown?"

A woman stood up, a child on her hip, and the elf beckoned her out of the room. More and more folk were called, taken away to see those they loved in the healing halls. The hair on the back of Bilbo's neck stood up as he waited to hear his son's name.

"Are you much hurt, Nori?" asked Vinca softly, her eyes haunted, and so very, very young.

"Nah." Nori shook his head, grinning slightly. "I'm fine, lass. 't'll take more than a scratch to the arm to take me down."

"A scratch to the arm and severe blood loss," amended Bilbo sarcastically, and Nori nodded, tapping his forehead.

"Yeah. I'm fine, pet. Don't worry."

"Good," she murmured, trying to smile herself. "I wouldn't want to tell Nelly you'd gotten yourself hurt. She'd skin me alive for bearing the message."

Nori laughed, but it was stilted, and Vinca's eyes flickered down. Bilbo's stomach churned as he followed her thoughts to Nelly and Bróin, and to Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin, Gandalf, Gimli, and the others.

"D'you… d'you think she's alright, Nori? D'you think they're alright?" she asked, and for once she sounded as young as she really was.

Nori shrugged uncomfortably. "I reckon they'll be fine. They're with Gandalf, ain't they? And they're not half bad with weapons. I'm sure they're fine, Vinca. I'm sure she's fine."

Bilbo tried to smile, but Bofur was looking pointedly away and Ehren was kneading his eyes with his fists, and no one seemed to truly believe Nori's words.

Even Nori.

"Family of Kíli Baggins?"

At once, they leapt to their feet, all seven of them, and Tauriel raised an eyebrow. Then she nodded, and beckoned for them to follow. They scurried along behind her, through halls Bilbo wished that he did not know so well. The healing halls of Mirkwood were pleasant enough, and light and airy, but they brought memories of dread and despair, and Fíli lying like a corpse for days on end.

But when they reached Kíli's room, he did not look dead. On the contrary – he was propped up in bed with rosy cheeks and a sheepish smile, and a blanket tucked up over him. The moment he saw Dís, his eyes softened, and his smile grew.

"Amad," he said, and Dís burst into tears. At once, horror flooded Kíli's face and he held out his hand. "Don't – Ama, don't cry! It's alright."

"Alright?" echoed Vinca, her eyes round with horror of her own

"Truly," promised Kíli, reaching up to take Dís' hand as she hurried to the side of his bed. There were tears in his eyes, but he was smiling, and when Fíli collapsed into a nearby chair and rested his forehead on the bed, Kíli sank his fingers into his brother's hair. "I'm not in any pain, not anymore. The elves make wonderful healing draughts. Please, Ama, don't cry."

Dís gave a watery laugh. "I am eight months pregnant and my son lies before me with a broken spine. I don't have much of a choice in the matter."

Kíli smiled. "It's alright, Amad. I'm going to live, I'm going to be fine. Fíli will just piggy-back me anywhere I want to go."

Dís gave a strangled laugh and Bilbo smiled slightly.

"Somehow, that doesn't sound inaccurate," said Bilbo wryly.

"Now," said Tauriel, lowering Kíli's blanket to reveal what looked like solid, white, bandages piled on top of each other. She tapped it gently with her knuckles, and to Bilbo's surprise it made an almost hollow sound. "We call this a 'plaster cast.' It is made from strips of bandages and a special adhesive, and it will prevent him from moving far more effectively than anything else. He will need to where it for at least six months, possibly longer, but after a month or so bed rest will no longer be so essential."

"She hasn't told you the worst part," said Kíli gravely, though there was a cheeky smile on his face. "They had to shave me. It was awful, I must be the baldest dwarf in all of history."

This time, even Fíli smiled.

To Bilbo's great relief, it seemed that Thranduil truly meant it when he spoke of housing the Beornings. The elves spent the following days setting the refugees up in small houses and tents throughout the kingdom, taking families one by one and giving them their own personal space and supplies. The dwarves were left for a while in the great hall, but Bilbo was not surprised, nor really offended. They all spent most of their time in Kíli's room, talking idly, dancing around the subject of what they were going to do next.

Three days after they arrived, that was where they were when a knock came at the door, announcing the strangest trio of folk that Bilbo had ever seen. Thranduil was first through the door, and behind him, towering over him, was Grimbeorn. Behind them trailed Inni, who came up to neither man's waist, but wore the same sombre expression on her face that both Thranduil and Grimbeorn bore.

"What the devil do you want?" demanded Glóin, which was not what Bilbo would have said – though he quite agreed with the sentiment.

"Other than offering shelter to you and your allies, and sending an army of my own people to your assistance?" he drawled, striding into the room. "I want to speak with you, and it is a matter that cannot wait."

Bilbo glanced at Dís, who was clearly doing her best not to glare. She had never liked Thranduil, and since his actions before the Battle of the Five Armies she had loathed him, but she was always civil. She respected the fragile alliance between Mirkwood and the Mountain, and was ever counselling Thorin in favour of bolstering the kingdoms' relationship, but to Bilbo, she would rant and rave about the elvenking's greed and selfishness, and his smugness and his past, and pretty much everything else about him.

A heavily pregnant, deeply upset, highly hormonal Dís, plus Thranduil in – well, any mood really – was quite likely a recipe for disaster.

But she simply nodded slightly. "What is it you would like to discuss?"

"Your plans. I want to make sure that you are aware you do have the option to stay here, if that is your wish. Particularly given your injured prince, here," said Thranduil. "Though I believe your plan was initially to move on to the mountain."

"It was," said Dís tightly. "But Kíli cannot be moved."

"And the mountain is surrounded," said Inni earnestly. "There is no way in or out."

"But," said Grimbeorn, "if you did wish to return to the mountain, we think we have a plan."

 **I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review if you get the chance, I'd really appreciate knowing what you think! In all honesty I doubt that there will be an update tomorrow, as I am working all day and going out in the evening, but I will endeavour to get back on schedule from next week.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, take care of yourselves.**


	69. Chapter 69: The Road to Ithilien

**Hello there! Only one day late today, so we're getting a little better! Thank you to my lovely reviewers, I hope that you enjoy this chapter, too! As ever, I also hope that you can forgive the inevitable mistakes in this chapter.**

 **Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Road to Ithilien**

For a full day and all of the following night, Nelly and Bróin rode without halting. They did not eat or drink or rest, though Nelly dozed off once or twice. She was always woken by the cold of the wind whipping through her, lashing easily through the thin rags that Saruman had provided, no matter how Bróin tried to keep his arm wrapped around her. No matter how he tried to keep her warm.

But as the sun rose towards noon on the second day, Nelly knew that they needed to stop soon. She needed to drink something, to eat something – her head was aching nearly as much as her stomach, and she could feel her pulse begin to flutter a little. She also knew that Bróin was likely even more exhausted than she was. He had not slept a wink. There was a part of her that did not want to stop – she had no idea where they were, or if they had come far enough to be safely out of Saruman's clutches. If they stopped, they would be even more vulnerable. And when they stopped, they would have to address the fact that they had no food, and no water. They had no weapons and no medical supplies, no maps, no plan – they barely even had clothes. A single tunic was not appropriate travel attire for a hobbit or a dwarf, no matter how oversized it may be. When they stopped, Nelly and Bróin would have to figure out what to do.

But as the landscape changed around them, and a small forest came into view on the horizon, Nelly knew that they could not go much further. She took Bróin's arm, and at once he leant forward to listen.

"We should stop. Find somewhere to rest."

Bróin nodded wearily. "Those trees up there?"

"Great minds," Nelly replied, and Bróin urged the warg onwards. In moments, the trees closed over their heads, and a wonderful sound filled Nelly's ears. "I hear a stream!"

They steered away to the right, and sure enough there was a small, bubbling stream. Bróin pulled the warg to a halt, and then paused.

"Do you think it'll attack us when we get down?"

Nelly froze, considering this disturbing possibility. The warg was breathing heavily, and growling as it panted, with foam around its hideous jaw. But it looked around cautiously, with eyes alight with awareness, and Nelly did not think the beast was half as tired as it should be. It certainly did not look too tired to try and kill them.

"I'll go first," said Bróin slowly, working it out as he spoke. "You hold the reins, keep its head away from me, and I'll tie it to a tree."

"With what?" asked Nelly warily. "The reins aren't that long."

Bróin wiggled behind her as he spoke. "There might be something of the saddle we can – hang on!"

"What?"

"There's a saddle-bag! There's two!"

Nelly blinked, taken aback. She did not remember seeing any saddle-bags in the barn – if she had, she would have been rummaging for food yesterday. "What? Where?"

"There're tied beneath the saddle," said Bróin, his voice strained as he leant down. "Ah! Here's one!"

Nelly twisted her upper body around as Bróin brought up a dirty leather bag, with straps that had clearly attached it to the saddle. "Is there food?"

Bróin ripped it open and stared inside, his nose instantly wrinkling up. "Urgh, it stinks! But aye, Nelly, there's rope in here! And food!"

Nelly was unashamed as a whimper tore from her throat, but Bróin paused, holding the bag close.

"We should get down first. My legs are killing me."

Despite herself Nelly nodded, taking the saddle-bag as Bróin reached under and retrieved the other. Nelly took the rope from the saddlebag and looped it through the harness over the warg's face, tying it as securely as she could. Then, she held onto the reins, and Bróin leapt down. At once, the warg twisted around with a snarl, but Nelly yanked hard on the reis and pulled its head back around. It howled, and Bróin darted forward, grabbing the rope newly tied to the beast's halter. He raced to a great tree nearby and ran the rope around it, tying it fast.

Then, to Nelly's great relief, he danced out of reach of the warg's jaws.

"Alright," he said, nodding at Nelly. "Now!"

She jumped down, racing away from the warg before it could snap at her. It lunged after her, but the rope pulled it short and it retreated, whining piteously.

A hand rested on Nelly's shoulder and she jolted, her heart racing even as she saw Bróin beside her. He smiled wearily.

"Let's eat."

There were several 'edible' items in the warg's saddlebags, but none of them were particularly appetising. There was stale, near moulding bread, and strips of dried meat, along with some unpleasantly green hard-tack like biscuits, and a couple of small, dark pudding like things which looked suspiciously close to the colour of blood. There were also two flasks of orc draught, by the smell of it, and a small supply of bandages stuffed right at the bottom of the bag.

Not knowing when they would next get a chance to find food, Nelly and Bróin shared out four days worth of meagre rations, and then collapsed beneath a nearby tree, nibbling on a small square of foul bread each. Nelly was not quite hungry enough to eat unknown meat from the bag of an orc, but Bróin took a few pieces, weighing them in his hand. He sniffed them cautiously, and grimaced. Then, he nodded.

"This is my share of the meat, alright Nell?"

"You can have the whole share of the meat – I'm not that starving yet," she said, shuddering.

Bróin nodded again, and then he stood up. Nelly watched, frowning, as he walked slowly over towards the warg, but when the creature got to its feet, so did Nelly.

"Bróin! What are you doing, get away!"

The warg snarled at her, but Bróin held up his empty hand placatingly. "It's alright," he said, in a low, soothing voice. The wolf growled in reply

"Are you mad?" hissed Nelly, her heart thudding in her chest as Bróin stepped within swiping distance. "Bróin-"

He tossed the dried meat towards the warg and it jerked away. Bróin retreated quickly, his palms open before him, and Nelly seized his arm.

"What in Durin's name do you think you're doing?" she cried, and when he turned to look at her, Bróin's smile died.

"You're shaking," he said, reaching toward her, but she jerked away and punched his shoulder, even as her other hand pinched his arm tighter.

"What was that? You think I want to come this way only to watch you get torn to pieces? You think I want to be alone out here – you think I want to lose you, too?"

"I'm sorry!" he rushed, his eyes wide and vulnerable. "I wasn't – I didn't think of it like that Nelly, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Then how did you think of it?" she demanded, a shiver of cold running through her as the creature stared at them.

"That warg is our best chance of survival. We've got little in the way of food, we've no weapons or transport – by Mahal, Nelly, we hardly have clothes! If we keep it fed, earn its trust, we might get further."

"Earn its trust? That's a warg, not a wolf, Bróin. They are evil."

"I don't know about that," Bróin mused, staring at the deformed creature. "I was talking to Beorn once, when I was little. He said that he thought it was a mistake to assume that any creature other than orc or goblin or troll is ever born evil."

"And he should've added wargs to that list."

"No, he said that wargs were different. That they were like horses – see, orcs and goblins and trolls all had their brains twisted and broken, they can't feel kindness or mercy or love, but Beorn said that Sauron never thought the minds of animals worth breaking. That they could be trained, and violence and obedience could be bred into them, so there was no need to waste power ensuring that they would never 'turn to the light.' Beorn said he met a tame warg once, owned by a travelling performer. He said that they are dangerous, and more prone to violence than wolves. He said that wargs are trained to enjoy the kill, and that they can become as evil as their masters, but he did say they are not born evil," Bróin said earnestly, his eyes boring into Nelly's in a clear attempt to try and convince her.

Nelly saw right through him. "You're starting to like the damned thing, aren't you?"

Bróin shrugged. "Maybe. But there's a practical side to it too, Nell. We have-"

"No weapons, no transport, I know." She sighed heavily, kneading her eyes with her knuckles. "I just… I don't want to get your hopes up, Bróin, and gave your hand bitten off. This isn't some abandoned warg pup you might be able to teach some manners to, it's full grown. If you get attached and we have to put it down…"

Bróin opened his mouth and then shut it again, sinking down to the ground. He hung his head and sniffed, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. For a long moment he did not say anything, and Nelly sat down beside him. He rested his head on his shoulder. "I just want something to go right, Nell. I just… I don't want to have to kill anything for a while and, and when it whines I hear Nyla and I miss her."

A lump grew in Nelly's throat even as Bróin spoke, and wove her arm around his shoulders. "I miss Kya, too. And I miss my brother, and Merry and Frodo and Sam and Vinca – I even miss Pearl, I never thought I'd say _that._ "

Bróin gave a watery laugh and shifted around, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her shoulder. She rubbed his back gently and ran her fingers through his hair.

"We'll keep Toothy for now, then, Bróin," she murmured. "Let's get a drink and get some sleep, alright?"

With a heavy sigh, Bróin nodded. Together, they stumbled down to the stream, and Nelly's heart sung at the first taste of clean water that had touched her tongue in what felt like weeks. She drank until her stomach swam, and then washed her face and hands in the water. It felt wonderful to be clean, to wash away the filth and fear of Isengard, and Nelly wished that she could dive in for a full bath, but the water was so cold that it bit her fingers.

Then, they returned to where they had left the warg, which growled and raised its hackles. Nelly stared at it apprehensively, and then her eyes wondered up the trees around them.

"If we're going to be camping with a warg, I vote we sleep like the Galadhrim," she said, and Bróin nodded. She looked at him carefully. His eyes were glazing over slightly, and his head was slowly swaying a little from side to side, and she knew that he would agree with whatever she said at this point. He had finally allowed his fatigue to catch him, and Nelly knew that he would be out in a matter of minutes, like a dwindling candle that had finally been blown out. She took his hand and led him to a large, tall tree, and they climbed until she was happy that the warg could not reach them, if it happened to gnaw through its rope.

She found a great nook of knotted branches that would form a platform wide enough to sleep on, and they lay down together. Nelly herself was tucked against the tree trunk with Bróin behind her, and she closed her eyes.

"Nell?"

"Mm?"

"Do you mind if we snuggle?" mumbled Bróin.

Nelly opened her eyes, frowning. She peered over her shoulder. "Since when do you ask?"

Bróin shrugged, his hazy eyes searching for hers. "Don't know. I was just thinking about what our amads would say if they could see us now."

Nelly laughed, imagining the horrified yet unsurprised look on Eglantine Took's face if she was able to see her daughter half naked in a tree with a man she was not married to. "It's alright, Bróin. Snuggle away. I'd rather get yelled at by my mother than freeze to death in the night."

Bróin smiled and wrapped his arms around her, and she rested her head on his arm. A warm feeling that was very close to safety washed over her and only a few moments later, Bróin began to snore gently. Sleep was quick to take her, too, and when morning came she was happy to see that Bróin's eyes were a little brighter.

They shimmied down the tree, and to Nelly's surprise found that the warg was still there, and had not seemed to attempt to gnaw through the rope. It snarled at them as they got down, but did not lunge.

Nelly and Bróin ate their petty rations, and once again Bróin threw a little jerky to the warg. Again, they drank from the stream, choosing to save their orc draught for later – a move that was partially due to tactics, but mainly due to the both of them utterly dreading the thought of tasting it again.

Then, they slowly approached the warg.

"Stay," said Bróin in a low, commanding voice, and though the warg growled, it did not move as Nelly and Bróin grew closer, and it did not thrash when they mounted. Bróin let out a small laugh, and patted the creature's flank. "Good boy," he said, and Nelly rolled her eyes.

She leant over to the tree and untied the warg, glancing over her shoulder to pass the rope to Bróin, and she smiled at the grin on his face.

"So," she said, "we keep going south-east?"

Bróin shrugged. "I assume so. Do you know where we are?"

"No…" Nelly pursed her lips. "From the landscape and those mountains in the far south we saw yesterday I'd guess we were well into the Eastfold of Rohan now, near half way to Ithilien, but we can't be, not in two days' of journeying."

"Unless what Saruman said about his wargs were true," said Bróin, and then he looked away.

Her stomach coiling, Nelly turned to the front herself. If what Saruman said was true, that was all well and good for Nelly and Bróin, but it also meant that a great host of wargs and orcs had come down upon Bilbo and Dís, and that did not bode well for them.

"Let's just go," said Bróin. "Find Frodo."

"Aye," said Nelly, wiping her nose on her shoulder and nodding, pretending that it was as simple as it sounded. "Go find Frodo."

After steering the warg down to the stream that it might drink too, they set off, riding through the entirety of the day. When night came, and they halted, Bróin again threw his meat rations (and one of the horribly blood-like puddings) at the warg. This time, it did not so much as growl, and curled up before them, its head resting on its paws. It stared at them as they ate, but made no sound. That night they slept again in the trees, but come morning the warg did not even growl when they approached it to ride.

On the third night, however, the portions were running low, and Nelly watched as Bróin hand-fed 'Toothy' his own biscuits. Sighing heavily, Nelly split her own share in half, passing it to Bróin when he returned to her side.

"No." He frowned, pushing her hand away. "That's not fair, that's your portion. And I'm a dwarf, I don't need as much food."

"We both know you've essentially got a hobbit's stomach, and that dwarves still class you on the 'child' side of adolescence, Bro. If you don't eat it, I'll shove it down your throat in your sleep," she promised, and Bróin smiled sheepishly, taking the share.

"Thank you, Nelly."

She leant against him. "You're welcome."

All of a sudden, the warg stiffened, rising to its feet, and Nelly tensed, seizing Bróin's arm. The beast was staring at them and breathing heavily, and its hackles were slowly raising.

"Bróin-" Nelly whispered.

"I know," he whispered back. "The tree there, climb!"

They had no chance to climb. The warg pounced, leaping into a bush to its right, and there was a great squealing sound, and then silence. The two friends sat frozen, with painful grips on each other's arms as they watched the warg slowly back out of the bushes, its face torn from the thorns, and a large, dead badger clenched in its jaw.

"Oh, thank Mahal," breathed Nelly, lowering her head to her knees as the warg began to eat, ripping its prey apart and chomping indiscriminately through meat and bone.

"Nearly gave us a heart attack there, Toothy," said Bróin, laughing breathlessly, and the warg paused in its gorging, looking deep into Bróin's eyes. Bróin held up his hands. "Hey, you caught it. We won't take it from you. We won't hurt you, if you don't hurt us."

'Toothy,' as the warg had apparently been named, stared for a long moment, and then returned to eating.

"You really think it understands us?" whispered Nelly, and Bróin shrugged.

"Maybe. Our wolves do. I know they're special, but Beorn says animals know more than you think, even if they don't understand word for word."

"You've been spending too much time with Beorn, I think," she teased, wrinkling her nose slightly at the warg's bloody table manners.

It stopped eating again and looked up, and Nelly wondered if she had been caught staring. But then the warg returned to what was left of the badger, a large, back leg and part of the flank, and tossed it with his nose.

It landed by Bróin's feet.

Then, the warg curled up into a small ball, tucking its bloodied muzzle beneath its hind leg, and its eye half closing even as it watched Bróin.

Bróin looked at Nelly, his face as stunned as she was. Then he beamed. "Thank you, Toothy! Do you think we can risk a fire?"

"Aye," said Nelly, her stomach growling at the thought of roasted meat. "Far better than we can risk eating unknown badger meat raw, to be honest." She scampered to her feet and darted through the trees, picking up whatever kindling and firewood she could find. Faster than ever before, she gathered enough for a fire, stacking it a safe distance away from their canine companion.

Bróin seemed to have forgone safe distances all together, and was scratching the warg behind its ears, though he dropped that task to help Nelly start the fire. Soon, the smell of roast meat was making Nelly's stomach seize in desire, and though it felt like the cooking took an age, at last Bróin removed the meat from the spit, and they ate like animals, tearing chunks off with their teeth.

Nelly's stomach sang with gratitude as she ate, and as she finished the meat and licked the juice from her fingers, she realised that for the first time since the fellowship had been shattered, she actually felt full.

Leaning happily against Bróin, she gazed at Toothy. It was easier to grant it a name, and think kindly of it, now that it had fed her.

That said, there was no denying that it was a warg even uglier than any Nelly had seen up close. Its snout was short and deformed, and its face twisted almost as though it had run into a wall, and the muscles of its legs were almost disproportionately large. Curled up as it was, it looked almost sweet.

"I know that it'll take more than three days, and that it might all go horribly wrong," murmured Bróin, "but I think we'll be alright with Toothy, Nell."

"I hope so," she replied, smiling a little. "Until Kya sees how much attention you're giving him, of course."

That night, they slept on the ground.

The morning dawned with rain and drizzle, but Nelly was alive to see it, so she did not mind too much at first. Once more, she and Bróin scraped a little breakfast and gave what spare they had to Toothy, and then they mounted and began to ride.

But though the rain was not heavy, it was relentless, and soon Nelly was soaked, and shivering. To make matters worse, the rain-soaked rags that she wore were clinging to every inch of her, and the same was true for Bróin. For the first time in her life, Nelly felt a little awkward to be so close to him, and so very close to naked. He had stopped holding her, choosing instead to hold the reins, and when their wet feet touched Bróin jolted, and mumbled an apology.

She glanced over her shoulder, and saw that he was a violent shade of red, and looking rather uncomfortable himself. That was enough for Nelly – it was one thing that she should feel odd, but Bróin need not feel bad for things he could not control.

"Don't feel bad, Bro. You know, I'm getting quite cold."

He lowered his eyebrows in concern. "Are you sure?"

"Aye," she said with a smile. "Stop worrying about what our mother's will think of this, will you?"

He laughed, and she shuffled back so that his chest was pressed against her. He wrapped one arm around her, and at once she did feel much warmer. And she felt comfortable again, though there was an odd tingling in her spine that she could not place.

As they rode through the rain, Nelly became surer and surer that somehow, despite the seemingly impossible distance, they had already made it to Ithilien. Though she had never been there before, it was a land as Boromir had described around campfires in the earlier, less desperate days of their journey. There was beautiful but abandoned woodland, and rolling hills, and the shadow of Mordor on the horizon.

Around them there grew herbs that she could not name, scents released by the rain that she only recognised from some of Bombur's more flamboyant baking endeavours. She was sure that Bróin could name them, and rather sure that she should be able to as well, but for now she would simply enjoy them.

There was little else to enjoy.

The land was vast, and full of places to hide. Though they had slowed to a swift walking pace, they would still have little chance of espying two hobbits. What was worse, they had the mountains of Mordor dangerously close by, and should any orcs pass through they would be in no position to fight back. On the other hand, thinking to what Boromir had said of Ithilien, Nelly remembered that Rangers of Gondor still patrolled here. She doubted that they would look before they shot at anything that was riding on a warg.

"Maybe this was a mistake," Nelly whispered, tightening her arm around Bróin's. "Anyone we find here will kill us before they can see who we are."

"What else could we do, though?" asked Bróin, sounding equally afraid. "We've come all this way."

"I don't know." Nelly's throat felt thick with tears that begged to be shed. She bit her lip, hard, and then closed her eyes. "I think – I just want to go home, Bróin."

At once, both of Bróin's arms wrapped around her, and he rested his head on her shoulder. "Me too," he whispered, sorrow cracking his voice wide open.

"Let's go home," she whispered, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. "Please."

Bróin nodded, sniffing, and he lifted a hand from the reins to wipe his face. In that moment, Toothy stuck his head in the air, and then dropped it straight to the ground. He began to sniff, and then he began to run with his nose to the ground. Bróin pulled him to a stop and he whined, his nose pressed against the ground, though he made no move to go on without the dwarf's consent.

Nelly looked up at Bróin and shrugged. "He might've found a deer or something. Be good to get more dinner."

"S' what I thought," mumbled Bróin, loosening his grip on the reins. "Off you go then, Toothy."

The warg shot forward, weaving a path around trees and bushes, and occasionally stopped to retrace his steps, only to redouble his speed onward. Then he slowed, and paused, and then sank low to the ground, prowling slowly up a small rock face. At the top, Nelly could see an overhang that might belie a small cave, and a sudden fear that they were about to accidentally ambush Ithilien rangers burst through her. She held on to Bróin as tightly as she could, and the warg came to the top of the rocks and stuck his head into the cave.

A horrified screech ripped into the air, followed by another, and Nelly and Bróin screamed to, clutching at each other as Bróin pulled Toothy backwards.

But then Nelly saw who was screaming, and drawing his sword to them, and a cry of relief ripped from her throat.

"Frodo! Sam!"

Frodo froze, his sword in the air, and his mouth dropped open. "N-Nelly? Bróin?"

"What the devil are you two doing on a warg?" cried Sam, looking pale as a waning moon. He was still brandishing his sword at Toothy, but Nelly did not care. She fell from the warg's back and hurtled herself forward, throwing her arms around Frodo's neck and squeezing him as tightly as her shaking arms would allow.

She heard his sword clatter to the ground as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her just as tightly. Behind her, Bróin tied Toothy to a nearby tree and then leapt at Sam, engulfing him in a hug so fierce that the hobbit let out a strangled laugh of protest.

"What happened?" Frodo demanded, pulling away from Nelly to stare her up and down. When he saw what she was wearing, and her bare legs, he let out a cry. "What happened? Where are your clothes?"

"In Isengard," Nelly replied, her eyes swimming with tears. "Frodo, I'm so glad to see you, I'm so glad you got away!" she collapsed into his arms again, and she could hear the fear in his voice as he wrapped his cloak, and then his arms, around her.

"Isengard?"

"Let's get everyone out of the rain first, before we go worrying about Isengard," said Sam tightly, and Nelly glanced over to see him wrapping his cloak around Bróin. "Now I assume that great _warg_ there isn't going to eat us?"

"No, he's friendly," said Bróin. "At least, friendly as warg's come."

It was a little warmer in the cave, and the four sat down together in a circle so tight that it would have been uncomfortable on any other day. Today, to be able to touch Frodo and Sam and know that they were alive and unhurt was everything that Nelly needed.

"So where are the others?" asked Frodo, and Nelly froze. Grief choked her, and as Frodo's face fell to horror, she found that she could not talk at all. She hung her head, and Bróin did the talking for her.

"We don't know," he said shakily. "We were caught, and – Gimli and Aragorn and Boromir and Legolas, we _heard_ that they were in Rohan, but I don't, I don't know if the man was lying and – and…"

"And?" whispered Frodo.

"Merry and Pippin… Saruman says that they are dead," croaked Bróin, and Nelly squeezed her eyes shut as Frodo cried out.

"Dead? No, no! That can't be – you – are you sure?"

Bróin gave a small sniff. "We don't know, but the orcs that grabbed them were all dead and Saruman said, and Gríma said, and…"

"Well, I for one don't trust a single thing that Saruman says," said Sam bluntly, though his voice trembled badly. "And who's this Gríma, when he's at home? I think you best just tell us everything that's happened since Rauros."

Taking a deep breath, Nelly opened her eyes and looked at Bróin. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed. Steadying herself as best she could, Nelly began to speak. She told Frodo and Sam what had happened when they fled, and how the orcs had captured her, and left Bróin for dead. He stepped in then, explaining how he had found the orc draught and followed her, and why he had revealed himself in a fight he knew he could not win.

When Bróin spoke of seeing Nelly on the ground beneath the orc Frodo went positively green, and Sam as red as a fire. She took over the story then, speaking of their hellish road to Isengard, and what they had faced when they got there. Her stomach churned when she spoke of the interrogations, and the information that they had been forced to give. She relayed what Gríma had told them as accurately as she could, and described the strange battle with the trees as best as she could. Bróin took over once more, telling of finding the warg in the stables and their journey since.

When he finished, silence fell thick and heavy upon them. Frodo was staring at the floor, his hands shaking, and Sam's grip on Nelly's fingers was so strong that they had become numb.

"Well," said Sam slowly, clearing his throat before speaking again. "I'm awfully sorry that all that happened to you, and if I'd've known I'd've turned back at once – and what's more, if I ever get my hands on Saruman he'll be mighty sorry, I'll tell you that."

Nelly smiled, squeezing Sam's hand. "I'm sure he will be."

Sam smiled back. "But what's more, I think you're making a big mistake thinking that our Merry and Pippin are dead based on the word of a bunch of uruks, a dark wizard, and a man who quite frankly sounds no more respectable than that Alfrid Lickspittle of Lake-Town – you know, the homeless man that used to be an advisor to the Master. So 'Gríma' says that the men of Rohan cut them down – well, I don't think much of _that._ There're good honest people in Rohan, that's what Bilbo says and what Boromir says, and I reckon they know the difference between orcs, and not orcs, if you follow. Now they might've thought them to be children and not hobbits, but either way I don't think they'll've hurt them. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the two rascals are holed up in some hall somewhere, drinking and eating to their heart's content."

"He's right," said Frodo earnestly. "Saruman would have every reason to make you think that they are dead, but really there's no proof."

Nelly looked away, biting down on her lip. She wanted to agree with them, more than anything else in the world she wished that she could agree with them, but Nelly had believed her brother dead for over four days. It was not as simple as just choosing to believe that maybe all the proof that they had was wrong.

But then Bróin spoke. "There was something that Boromir told me, when we were in Moria. When I was worried about Bofin, he said that he had no proof that anything was wrong with Faramir, and therefore he could choose to believe that everything was alright."

"Aye," said Sam, patting Nelly's knee as Frodo wrapped his arm around her shoulder. "I don't think they're dead, Nelly. Truly, I don't. We have to keep hopeful now, or that darned place over there-" he jerked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of Mordor "-or that damned thing around Frodo's neck will start driving us mad. Not that I blame you, though. After going through what you've been through, no one could blame you for thinking the worst."

"Kíli thought the worst in Goblin Town, when Bilbo fell," said Frodo gently. "And just think how long Dís and Fíli and Thorin thought that Fíli was dead. You can't give up hope, Nell. Really, we don't know what happened."

She stared at him for a long moment. "You truly think they might be alive, after everything that we've told you?"

"Yes," said Frodo sincerely. "I truly do."

Nelly wiped her eyes and gave a small smile. "Very well."

"Now, let's get some clothes on you both," said Sam, digging around in one of the bags behind him. "We must have something…"

Frodo pursed his lips. "I don't know what we have. We left most of the baggage on the boat."

"Aha!" Sam pulled out a single pair of trousers, and then dug a little deeper to find a pair of dwarven under-trousers. At once, he passed the underwear to Bróin and the outer trousers to Nelly. She hesitated, but all three of the boys began insisting at once that she should wear them, and she laughed a little.

"Alright, alright. Why, you care more that I'm half naked than half starved!" she joked, and at once Frodo passed her a piece of lembas. She smiled, and kissed her cousin's cheek. "Thank you, Frodo."

"You're alright now," he said, turning to give Bróin some lembas too. He put a hand on the young dwarf's shoulder. "Both of you. We'll look after you."

Bróin laughed, but it was in a vulnerable, child-like voice that he replied. "We're supposed to be looking after you."

"And I'm sure you will," said Frodo. "But for now, we will look after you."

"You've gone through far worse than we have," added Sam sadly.

"But you're safe now. Well, safe as can be in uncharted land on the way to Mordor," said Frodo, the hint of a jest on his cheeks.

Even as she hugged Frodo, Nelly looked over his shoulder at Bróin. Their eyes were both filled with tears, and she knew that he was thinking the same thing that she was. Finally, finally, something had gone their way.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that (slightly late) chapter! This has been in the plans for a good while now and I'm so excited that the reunion will take place. I just wonder how Gollum will feel about this when he returns….**

 **Please do leave any feedback that you would like, I really appreciate it, and thank you for reading!**


	70. Chapter 70: The Plan of the Elvenking

**Hey there! I hope that you enjoy this on time chapter, but it is past my bedtime, so I warn you – typos may abound. I mean, I've checked for 'em, and I hope that they don't, but alas.**

 **Chapter Seventy: The Plan of the Elvenking**

The Elvenking was making Dís uneasy.

As Grimbeorn and Inni explained their plan, Dís noticed that Thranduil was being rather tight-lipped about the whole matter. His face was impassive as ever, and he said nothing while the skin-changers talked. If he had walked away, Dís might have been less perturbed, but his presence was suspicious.

Why did Thranduil care for the ins and outs of such a plan, other than the involvement of a few of his people – a thing he would already know about?

Why was he still here? Still watching?

Distrust slithered up her spine, hissing in her ear no matter how much sense and thought there clearly was in Grimbeorn's plan. It did not matter that they had designed a detailed way of safely moving Kíli, or proposed a route that might avoid most of the army.

It did not matter that their plan seemed possible.

Because Thranduil was standing there, still watching. Wordless. Emotionless.

And Dís did not trust him. She waited until the two skin-changers had finished their proposal, allowing their plan a moment to breathe, and then she turned straight to the Elvenking, and crossed her arms over her chest. Without standing.

"Why?" she said. "Why would _you_ aid in such a plan? This is not simply taking in refugees. There would be people of your own at stake, _goods_ of your own at stake, and that is never a risk that you like to play, is it?" After a beat, she added, "Your highness."

She felt Bilbo squirm beside her, and caught Kíli's wince out of the corner of her eye, but Dís maintained eye-contact with the Elvenking, and he did not look away.

"No, it is not," he said evenly. "I do not claim to hide it. These are dark days, days of war, and I will protect my people however I can. But those in danger would be only those who volunteered, and though my realm is all but under siege, my farms are within my walls. We have food, and water, and some can be spared to ensure that Erebor does not fall."

"And you care that Erebor does not fall, do you?" challenged Dís. "It is not something that has concerned you in the past."

"Amad," Kíli murmured, but Thranduil ignored him.

"I care that the mountain is not taken by Mordor. If there were to be orc strongholds in both Dol Guldur and the Lonely Mountain, my kingdom would not long survive. I make no pretence – I am no lover of dwarves – but there are many lives in that mountain, too many to be lost. As long as the mountain is held by allies of the light, the north may endure. If Erebor falls, so will we."

A grim silence flooded the room like a heavy smoke, pouring down into their hearts, and Dís pursed her lips. That, she knew, was true enough. If Erebor fell, the poison of Mordor would obliterate Mirkwood, and all that was left of the Beornings, and every town between Erebor and the Iron Hills. It would perhaps destroy Dain's realm, too.

"You talk of offering supplies that would barely be one meal for two hundred," said Fíli carefully. "Are you sure these 'seeds' you speak of would grow inside the mountain?"

"I am," said the elf. "The strain of corn is bred to withstand the most barren ground, and grow in even the faintest of lights. You have windows, do you not? What is more, it grows quickly. In three months, it is ripe to harvest, if needs must. But I do not think it is foodstuffs that your mountain needs."

Dís narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I fear for the mind of Thorin Oakenshield," said Thranduil gravely, and Dís shot up out of her chair.

Fury blazed on her cheeks and in her eyes, and she could barely keep its tremor from her voice. "How dare you? How _dare_ you? Thorin will not fall to that _damned_ sickness, not again – you-"

Thranduil rose his voice to cut over her, and though it was calm enough, there was a flash of anger in his eyes. "I did not say I the threat was dragon sickness. Perhaps, my lady, you might allow me to finish my sentence."

Dís ground her teeth together, but said nothing, glaring at the elf until he spoke again. To her surprise, when Thranduil did speak, his voice was soft.

"Your king is not young. It is enough to have your kingdom surrounded, to have an entire city of strangers sheltering within your walls, but to be lacking your nearest advisors – to be parted from your family… That is something else entirely. I fear that Thorin's mind is split between his kingdom and his kin, something that we cannot risk. Despair is far quicker to claim those who are grieving, or those who cannot see the ones that they love. I know this."

"Oh, do you?" huffed Glóin, folding his arms over his chest.

"Yes," said Thranduil, his eyes growing heavy with sorrow. "I would give all the gems in my kingdom to see my son. To know that he lives, to have him beside me while the world burns. My greatest fear is that he will perish, and I will endure, without even a corpse to bury. There is nothing, now, that I can do to prevent it. Legolas' fate is in his own hands, and in the hands of your children. What I can do is honour him, by ensuring that the kin of his companions are cared for, and by attempting to ease Thorin Oakenshield of the same grief that is accosting me."

"You seem rather sincere, for someone who once tried to murder my brother," said Dís bluntly, unwilling to allow herself to feel for Thranduil until she was certain that this was no trap. "What changed your mind?"

Thranduil glared at her and opened his mouth, but in that moment the baby kicked, and Dís automatically put a hand on her stomach. His eyes followed the movement, and then the elf's face crumpled into an expression sadder and wearier than Dís had ever seen from an elf before.

"Kíli Baggins has taught the north much," he said quietly. "If we are to survive this war, it is to be together. Fractured, fighting amongst ourselves – we will fall. I have seen Thorin Oakenshield with his nephews. They are dear as sons to him, and a blind troll could see it. Once, it is true, keeping them from Thorin would have amused me. But now that it is a feeling I know, I would wish this pain on no one but the scourge of Mordor. I would certainly not wish it on a dwarf that – despite his many, _many_ , faults – is a good man."

Dís searched, but saw no hint of a lie in the elf's face. She may still have thought him lying, if it were not for the look in his eyes. It was the look that passed her face, or Bilbo's, when they thought of Frodo. The look of a parent parted from their child without word. The look of the parent of a hero.

"Then thank you," she whispered, unsurprised to hear the croak of tears in her voice. "We shall certainly consider your offer."

Thranduil bowed his head. "Of course. Though time is limited. Another week you must wait before I would advise any attempt is made to move young Baggins, but I would hear your decision by the end of the day. If you decide to proceed, there is much to do. Of course, the choice is yours."

With that, the king turned and strode to the door. Then he paused, and looked over his shoulder. A mask of haughty calm covered any trace of the emotion he had shown, and when he spoke again, his voice was its usual smug drawl.

"Oh, one more thing. Should you tell anyone of what I disclosed in this room, I will deny it. I merely want you out of my kingdom, of course. I have an image to maintain."

"Of course," said Bilbo lightly. "Of course, we shall never tell anyone of the time you showed an ounce of humanity."

Thranduil grinned, and nodded. Then, he flounced from the room.

"Well," said Inni, her eyes wider than usual. "He is a very odd man."

* * *

"Well, you've done a right job of it," said Gimli, shaking his head as Aragorn inspected Legolas' arm. As it transpired, the elf had not done much damage on impact with the ground – he was badly bruised all up the right side of his body, and there was nasty scratch across his forehead, but that had been patched up almost at once.

His arm was another matter. A blow from an uruk's sword had almost severed it, snapping the bone clean in two and ripping the skin open, though Legolas had tried to hide the extent of the wound beneath his sleeve. It was no wonder that he had stumbled, and Gimli found himself wondering how in the name of Durin Legolas had fought for as long as he had.

Gimli winced as Aragorn tilted the elf's arm, revealing the bone breaking through the skin.

"I stabbed the orc that did it, though," said Legolas, but his voice and smile were too weak to appease Gimli. Legolas was far paler than any elf ought to be, pale as a dwarfling child who had never stepped outside the mountain. "He was number twenty-one."

"Pathetic," murmured Gimli. "Should've got him before he hit you."

Legolas gave a breathless laugh and closed his eyes, leaning back against the stone wall. They were in one of the fortress' healing chambers, but there were far more wounded than there were healers. The women had returned from the caves, and those who knew anything about healing were doing whatever they could. Before the battle, young boys had run spreading messages and carrying equipment for the soldiers, but now those boys were in shock, or wounded, or dead.

In their place were girls, some as young as seven or eight, hurrying through the throngs of bloodied men. Brave as dwarven lasses, the girls carried food and water to the wounded, and planted kisses on the cheeks of the injured, and pressed on open wounds with strong, tiny hands. To and fro they ran, messengers and errand girls, and Gimli knew that outside, they were also helping the women and unwounded men to bury the dead.

When Boromir was certain that Legolas was alive, and in no immediate danger of death, he had left to do help where he could. Gimli, however, was staying right where he was. At least until he saw the elf properly bound.

If such a thing could be done.

"I do not think we will have to take your arm," said Aragorn finally. "The break is clean enough." He reached down to a bowl of steaming, herb infused water beside him and dipped in a clean rag. "This may hurt. Are you sure you will not take any tonic?"

Legolas shook his head. "Give it to the wounded children. They need it more than I do."

But the moment that Aragorn touched the rag to the wound, Legolas hissed, clenching his jaw and seizing Gimli's hand. His eyes were tightly shut, and his shoulders rose up towards his ears. Gimli fought against looking away, instead bracing the elf's shoulders and squeezing him a little.

"You're all right lad," he murmured. "We've got you."

With a face like carven stone, Aragorn continued to dab at the wound, Legolas seized and shuddered, clinging to Gimli's hand and pressing the back of his head into the dwarf's shoulder with so much force that it was a little painful. But Gimli just shifted, and held his friend tighter.

"It's nearly done, lad," he said, with no idea whether or not he told the truth. "We're nearly there. We've got to clean it, you know that."

Legolas nodded, but a cry of pain wrenched free from his lips as Aragorn reached the bone, and he threw his head back against Gimli's shoulder again and again, the fingers of his free hand gripping the dwarf's hand like a vice. But he did not move his injured arm. He did not let it move once.

Aragorn leant back and grabbed the arm of a girl hurrying by with a bundle of bandages. She was at least a head shorter than Gimli, and he doubted that she was any older than eight years old.

"M'lord?"

"I need a pitcher of boiling water," said Aragorn, his voice quiet and calm and stern all at once. "Also a splint, more bandages, and a bottle of pain tonic. Can you get those for me?"

The girl nodded quickly, blonde hair falling into her wide, soulful eyes. "Yes, yes m'lord, I can do it. Um, I just, I just have to give this to Miss Gunhild, sir, I'll be as quick as I can."

"I would appreciate that," said Aragorn, bowing his head, and the girl ran off. With a heavy sigh, Aragorn looked at Legolas. "I am sorry, my friend, but I think you will need the tonic by the end of this."

Legolas pursed his lips tightly, rather too grey around the gills for Gimli's liking. He nodded slightly, and then turned his head away, closing his eyes again. He said nothing. Gimli glanced at Aragorn, who stared grimly back.

A few, agonisingly slow minutes later, the girl ran back, carefully putting down a box full of bandages and splints, as well as a small, green bottle. She chattered as she went, barely pausing to breathe. "Here you go, m'lord, I'll be back, I just, gotta get the water, I promise I'll be quick! Just gotta get the water!" Then, she sprang off, faster than an arrow from a bow, leaping over the legs of a nearby soldier and disappearing down the hall.

Aragorn uncorked the bottle and held it to Legolas' lips. The elf tilted his head back and drank until the man pulled the bottle away, and then he shuddered. A rather unpleasant thought occurred to Gimli.

"Now, now, don't be going into shock, now, you pointy-eared princeling," he growled, releasing Legolas' shoulders just long enough to grab a nearby cape and drape it around the elf's shoulders. "We don't have time for that nonsense."

An odd squeak from the end of the hall startled Gimli a little, and he looked up. His jaw dropped, and he stood up from the wall.

With a look of intense concentration on her face, the tiny girl was returning, carrying a metal pitcher of water almost as large as her midsection, and she seemed to have listened well to Aragorn's request for boiling water. There was a great spiral of steam billowing before her face, and there was nothing but her little cotton apron wrapped around her hands to protect her from the heat.

"No, no, no, that's a terrible idea!" stammered Gimli, but before he could hurry over she had reached them, her face red as a ruby. Gimli grabbed the sides of the pitcher and helped her lower it to the ground. He could feel the heat glowing beneath his hands, and he shook his head when the girl took her hands away, revealing bright red palms.

"Boiling water, m'lord," she breathed, and then her gaze fell on Legolas' arm. Her eyes grew to the size of golf balls, and she stiffened, her mouth dropping over slightly. "My lord!" she gasped, "Your bone!"

Gimli snorted, and a small smile twitched onto Legolas' lips. The elf opened his eyes to find the girl, and at the look on her face, his smile grew.

"They're not supposed to be visible, are they?" he mumbled. "Don't look, if it upsets you, child. I am not looking."

The girl shook her head and bit her lip, looking to Aragorn. "What else can I do, m'lord?"

"Do you need to get back to Miss Gunhild?" he asked, but the girl shook her head again.

"No, m'lord, she said to be at your service, m'lord, and I'll do whatever I can, and I don't know what that'll be because I don't know too much and it's all a bit frantic, m'lord," she said, talking faster than Nelly Took after five honey-meads.

"Alright," said Aragorn, his voice calm and slow. "What is your name?"

"Eilonwy, m'lord."

Aragorn bowed his head. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Eilonwy. Gimli, brace Legolas, he must not move. Eilonwy, find me the splint that fits Legolas's arm the best, you can use his good hand if you need to."

Legolas held his left arm towards the girl as she dove into the basket of bandages, rummaging through the various splints that she had fetched. Gimli wrapped his arm over Legolas' shoulders and held them firm, using the wall behind them to hold the elf in place as Aragorn dipped another cloth in the boiling water, and returned to cleaning the wound. Legolas hissed, his head tilting back, and Eilonwy paused. She patted Legolas' good arm.

"It's alright, pet," she hummed, "so far, so good. You're being very brave."

Gimli met Aragorn's eyes and they shared a small smile. The ranger took a deep breath, and then nodded.

"Alright. Eilonwy, I need you to wash your hands, and then dry them well," he said, washing his own hands in the hot herbal water one at a time, so that he did not release the wounded limb. "Now, pass me the splint – thank you." He draped several clean bandages over his own arm, and then nodded at Eilonwy. "Now, see his forearm. Put your hands around it and hold it against the wall."

Eilonwy's face twisted in concern, and she shook her head a little. "But – but – but that's going to hurt him."

"You must," said Aragorn sombrely. "If he moves when I reset the bone, he may lose his arm."

Legolas opened his eyes again, and through the haze of pain he smiled once more at the little girl. "It's alright. It must be done."

The child twisted her hands in her apron, and then nodded, taking a deep breath, and then taking hold of Legolas' arm just below Gimli's own hands.

"Very well," said Aragorn, and Gimli tightened his grip on the elf, pinning the tops of both of Legolas' arms against the wall. "Lean your all weight against him, child, hold him still. That's it. Now, on the count of three. One-"

Aragorn wrenched the arm backwards and Legolas screamed. It was a sound more gut-wrenching than Gimli had ever thought an elf capable of making, and he winced as his friend howled. Aragorn kept pulling, drawing the arm back until the bone that had been emerging from the skin was level with the bone still inside. Legolas smacked his head against the wall, his howls of raw agony echoing down the hall. Eilonwy start crying, but her tears and her sobs did not stop her from pressing down on Legolas' upper arm.

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn held the bones in alignment. "Gimli, hold firm, do _not_ let him move! Eilonwy, put on the splint, now!"

With a little sniff, the girl released Legolas' arm, and though Gimli had been the muscle restraining the elf all along, he felt her absence, tightening his grip on the elf's arm. As quickly as she spoke and ran, Eilonwy seized the splint from the ground, and with a grip gentle as only a child could manage, she lowered it onto Legolas' arm. Aragorn grabbed it at once with a single hand, shifting it into place and tightening the straps around it.

In movements almost as fast as the girl's, Aragorn wrapped a bandage around the splint, and then another, tight and even. Legolas ground his teeth together and groaned, but Aragorn did not hesitate, winding a final bandage around the elf's arm. Then, he let out a slow sigh.

"Eilonwy, is there a sling in that basket of bandages?" he asked in a low voice, and she nodded, hurrying over and rifling through until she found a large sling.

She passed it to Aragorn with shaking hands, and he draped it over the elf's neck, deftly suspending the bound limb in the sling. Then, he put a hand on Legolas' shoulder.

"The worst is over now, my friend," he said in a low voice, and Legolas hung his head to his chest.

Lip trembling, Eilonwy leant against Legolas' left side, and wrapped her tiny arms around his neck. "It's alright, pet," she whimpered, and in that moment Gimli realised that the child was likely reciting something that her parents said to her when she was ill, or afraid. "So far, so good, so far, so good. You're being very brave."

Tears on his cheeks, Legolas rested his face on the girl's hair, and Gimli could feel the elf shaking as he leant into the embrace.

"You did well, lad," said Gimli, a lump in his throat as he patted the elf's shoulder. "And you too, lass. You'd make a good dwarf with such courage."

"No," Legolas murmured, his eyes still closed, and his voice clouded with pain. "She is clearly closer to an elf, with so fair a face and such gentle hands."

Eilonwy pulled away, a slight frown on her face, and Aragorn gave a small laugh.

"They are both trying to compliment you, child," he said. "But they are right. You have done very well. I have one more task for you."

She stood up straight like a little warrior, and Gimli wondered what it was that Aragorn was planning to have her do – the child was almost as pale as Legolas, and still trembling.

"There are other injuries to tend to, but I cannot leave Legolas alone. Will you mind him, Eilonwy? I would like him to stay awake just for a while to make sure that he does not go into shock. Perhaps you could tell him some stories? That would be a great help to me."

Gimli nodded to himself. That was a good task for a frightened child. "I'll fetch you both some water, or some tea if any can be found." Gimli did not know much about healing for the nephew of the renowned Óin, but according to Bilbo a cup of tea could fix almost anything.

But Aragorn shook his head. "I do not think Legolas should eat or drink anything for a little while – the risk of shock is still imminent. Keep him warm, and alert, Eilonwy. Gimli, there is more we can be doing."

Gimli nodded, standing up and patting Legolas' good shoulder. "I'll be back soon, my friend."

Legolas nodded wearily, and Gimli followed Aragorn away, tugging a little at his beard as he went. He felt utterly drained, and more than a little nauseous. To see anyone in so much pain was hard enough, but for it to be a friend – he would have rather been through it himself. It was only now that he noticed he was shaking, and he wanted to run back and do something – anything – to take away the pain that was tormenting his friend.

But there was nothing he could do, and he knew it. Legolas had already had half a vial of pain tonic, and according to Aragorn, it was too soon to allow the elf to sleep. So Gimli distracted himself, striding outside to help move the dead.

When he returned two hours later, it was to find Eilonwy tucked into Legolas' side, playing with his hair and telling him an animated story about a magical pig and a golden bauble. Pain was wrought into the elf's face, and his eyes were slightly glazed, but there was the hint of a small smile on his lips whenever he glanced at the child.

Now with the blessing of Aragorn, Gimli passed them both a small bowl of broth.

"You might have to be his hands, lass," he said softly to Eilonwy. Then he turned to Legolas, putting a hand on his shoulder. "How're you doing, lad?"

Legolas looked up at him, with a wry smile. "See, Eilonwy? All dwarves ask stupid questions."

Eilonwy giggled, but there was an almost firm tone to her voice as she spoke. "That's a little mean, Legolas. He's just trying to be nice."

"Y'know, I think we should take her on with us instead of you, Legolas," said Gimli, sitting down beside the elf. "She's far more agreeable."

The child giggled again, and returned to undoing one of Legolas' braids. Gimli was a little surprised by this, but he reminded himself that braids were not as sacred to men and elves as they were to dwarves. That said, if it had been, he would not care. It seemed to be calming Legolas down to have the child play with his hair.

"Or perhaps she can take your place," whispered Legolas. His voice was weak, but Gimli was glad to hear him teasing. "Leave the bad smell behind."

Gimli shook his head, giving a low whistle. "With any luck Aragorn will agree to knock him out before his insults get any weaker, eh lass?"

As if Gimli's words had summoned him, Aragorn appeared with Boromir at his side. They helped Legolas to his feet, and brought him to a chamber with rows of makeshift beds, setting him down and passing him a vial of strong sleeping tonic.

The elf was asleep almost before he hit the pillow. Aragorn sighed, propping a line of rolled blankets and pillows along the elf's side to stop him from rolling onto his arm, but Gimli did not think that would be necessary. Already, Legolas was sleeping like the dead.

"Is he going to be alright?" asked Eilonwy, in a voice as tiny as she was.

"I think so," said Aragorn, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder. "He will be a lot of pain for a while, and there is still a risk of infection, but he is an elf, and that should help him. It will take more than a sword to the arm to take down Legolas Thranduilion. Thank you, Eilonwy. You've been very helpful today, we are very grateful."

She blushed, and did a clumsy curtsy. "You're welcome, m'lord. Is there anything else you ned?"

"No, thank you." Aragorn smiled. "Run back to your parents, child."

The girl stiffened slightly, but nodded, and scampered away down the hall. Gimli rubbed his jaw and stared at Legolas.

"He looks like a corpse," he murmured.

Boromir put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. "He'll be on his feet in no time, I am sure of it, Gimli. He is strong, and Aragorn is right. He'll be slaying more orcs than you again in no time."

Gimli punched Boromir's arm.

"Come, Gimli," said Aragorn gently. "Let us get something to eat, and catch some rest ourselves. Legolas is out of danger, for now. There is nothing more we can do, and the healers will watch him through the night."

With a heavy sigh, Gimli allowed himself to be led away for food, but when Aragorn and Boromir went to sleep, Gimli returned to the side of the elf. He folded his arms over his chest and sat back against the wall, watching Legolas' chest rise and fall.

He kept his watch until morning.

* * *

Kíli was colder than he had been in years. Blankets had been bundled around him, over the restraints that bound him tightly to the board-like stretcher beneath him, and his hood was fasted by his chin with a broach, but still he shivered. It was four hours past midnight, and the light of the stars was cold, and far away. The wind ripped right through him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He could not rub his aching arms, or tuck his hands beneath his elbows. He could not hunch up, or curl up, or blow on his hands. All he could do was wiggle his fingers.

There were straps over his legs and his hips, and across his chest and arms and forehead, keeping him tightly secured to his uncomfortable bed. Making sure that he could not move. There was also a hollow tube of wood, cushioned on the inside, that Tauriel had wrapped around his neck. She called it a neck brace, and this, too had been bound to the board.

Kíli knew what was at stake. He knew what could happen if he moved, if his back was twisted or hit – he knew what he could lose.

But he hated it.

He had thought that it would be easier after the first day, but it was not – his arms and back and head felt like beaten iron in the forges, and after ten minutes of incessant itching, the inability to scratch his nose was almost unbearable.

Yet his discomfort was nothing besides his fear.

The last time Kíli had been this incapacitated, he had been bound hand and foot in a cold cave. He had been tortured. He had thought that his brother and father were dead. Now, he was even more powerless than he had been then, and panic kept clawing its way up his throat, making it harder to breathe in the thin, cold air.

He fought the feeling back down every time, breathing from his stomach and dragging calmer thoughts to his mind, but that was getting harder. The waves of fear were becoming fiercer, more frequent, and he began to regret pushing to leave Mirkwood.

Only Bilbo and Fíli had fought to stay. Fear for Kíli and Dís fuelled a fierce fire in both of them, and for a while, Kíli had agreed with them. But Thranduil's words turned in his head, and they frightened him. He could not see Thorin falling to the Gold Sickness again, but the Sorrow Sickness was another matter entirely, and almost as dangerous. What was more, the idea of bringing support and supplies to Erebor was a grand one.

But deep down, if Kíli was honest, it was a childish selfishness that had swayed him. The plan had seemed stable, doable, and he wanted to be home. He did not want to languish in Mirkwood, of all places, he wanted to be home, with Thorin and his family, to know they were safe.

He just wanted to go home.

A tear slipped down his cheek, leaving a chill in its wake, and he closed his eyes. He should have stayed. He knew that he should of – it was a foolish idea, a child's wish, and he was a fool for fighting so hard. Of course the other dwarves would argue to return to the safety of the mountain, of course Vinca would agree with Dís. Kíli should have listened to Fíli and Bilbo.

But it would be worth it.

If they could just get there, just be in one piece –

He would be home. He would get to see Thorin.

He would still not be able to move. Perhaps his legs would never move again. Another tear fought to escape him, and there was nothing that Kíli could do to wipe it away. The fear was rising again, hot and thick in his throat, and his breath began to flee from him.

He was not captured.

He was not defenceless.

His brother was with him, riding on the back of the eagle that carried him.

His mother and father were close behind.

Slowly, painfully slowly, his breathing slowed, but his forehead was sweating, and now he felt colder than ever. He shivered, wiggling his fingers.

Then he heard something, something that was not the wind rushing in his ears, or the near silent wing beats of the eagles.

Fíli had cursed. Quietly – so quietly that Kíli would not have caught it had the wind not carried the sound to his ears. His heart sped up again, pounding against his ribcage. He longed to call 'What?' to know what was wrong, but he was not supposed to make a sound. They were still very high, but if they were heard – if they were spied…

He glanced to the side, more frustrated than ever that he could turn only his eyes, and not his head. But as they flew, he began to see flickering lights below. Fires. Hundreds of them, near thousands of small flames in a long curve.

Fire around the mountain.

The cold passed through Kíli's bones and into his soul.

They would not make it.

There was no way that they could fly over the army unseen, no way that they would ever reach the hidden door. They would be shot down, they would be massacred. Fury and fear surged through his veins, both screaming at his helplessness, and he closed his eyes and lips as tightly as he could. He did not want to cry. It was not noble or wise to cry, it was not the warrior's way. It would bring no comfort to his family.

But there was nothing else he could do. The tears flowed freely, and only ran faster when they began to sink lower. They were low enough to make out the camps of the orcs now, between the light of the fires, and the stars. His breath shuddered in and out, silent sobs racking his chest and sending a throb of pain to his lower back.

Then came the sound he had waited for, the harsh cry of an orc sentry, a barked order to fire, and then a yell from Fíli.

 _"Ready!"_

Tensing as much as he could, Kíli waited for the arrows to hit, wondering if it was a fool's hope to wish that some of them may survive. But the arrows did not hit. One sailed up beside him, already slowing down. It spun slightly, and then fell, back to the ground as harmless as the feathers that fletched it. They were, by a hair's breadth, out of range.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kíli could see Vinca leaning over the side of the eagle she rode, shooting back with a bow on her own. She would have gravity on her side, but Kíli could not see whether or not she had hit anything. With Soren dead and Kíli broken, they had lost their two best archers.

Fíli gave another shout, and the birds began to turn, flying faster and faster in a tight formation that made Kíli's head spin. He felt very sick. His fingers scrabbled desperately for something to grab, something, anything, to hold onto, but there was nothing in reach. He could not even grapple with the blanket above them. The eagle tipped to its side as it turned, and for a moment Kíli could see the others in front and behind him, twelve eagles with dwarves and elves on their backs, and sacks of goods in their talons. Then, the eagle carrying Fíli and Kíli broke away, and they began to descend, faster than arrows could fly. Kíli could not help but scream, squeezing his eyes shut and praying with all the strength that he had.

Everything stopped.

Kíli opened his eyes and saw a dark sky above him in place of an eagle, and rocks on either side where the sky had once been. Behind him, he could hear Fíli breathing heavily, hear the scraping of metal on rock.

"Fee," he gasped, shaking all over. "Fíli-"

His brother's voice came fast and breathless. "I'm here, I just, need to find the – there! Hang on, Kíli, Bilbo's coming."

There was the swish of heavy wings, and then Bilbo ran to Kíli's side. His eyes widened in horror.

"Oh, Kíli," he murmured, putting a hand on Kíli's forehead. "You're pale as death."

"'m fine," Kíli gasped, but there was a great screech from above, and Kíli heard footsteps, and Bragi's voice yelling.

"No time, no time – Fíli get that door open!"

Kíli could hear the others landing, hear the shrieks of the orcs and the smattering of arrows against rock, and he closed his eyes again.

What else could he do?

He heard Fíli open the door, heard the scraping sound of stone on stone, and then Bilbo began to yell. "Inside, everyone inside!" The hobbit grabbed the feet end of Kíli's stretcher, but Bragi brushed him aside.

"I've got him," he said. "Bilbo, go!"

Figures dove past Kíli then, darting into the mountain like rabbits diving into their warrens. Fíli ran the wrong way, grabbing the end of the stretcher by Kíli's face, and then Kíli was lifted into the air, and moving again. It was less smooth than the flight of the eagle, but as the darkness of the mountain closed around him, Kíli let out a sob of relief.

"We've got you, Kíli," murmured Fíli, even as he pushed further inside to let everyone else in.

"Inside, quick!" barked Tauriel. "Shut the door, quickly!"

The door slammed shut, and in almost the very same moment, a harsh dwarven voice roared.

" _Freeze_! Don't you take another step, or I swear on Durin's name it will be your last. Who are you? Identify yourselves!"

And Vinca breathed a single word. "Ari?"

The dwarf gasped. "Vinca? Is that you?"

"Identify yourself," growled the voice of another guard, one that Kíli did not know. "Don't lower your sword, son of Orvar."

"I appreciate your vigilance," said Bilbo, "but we don't really have time for this. We couldn't get in if we didn't have the key and know exactly where the door is, could we? That at least should tell you something. If you need more, I am Lord Bilbo Baggins, with me is the Princess Dís and Princes Fíli and Kíli, Lords Bofur, Glóin, and Nori, Bragi, Ehren, Miss Vinca Took, and Tauriel and Elbeth, of the woodland realm. Have I forgotten anybody? I don't think I have, we had to leave the wolves in Mirkwood, and Inni's flown back with the eagles… Now, we are in a hurry, we must get Kíli and Dís to the royal chambers so that the elves can check they've not some themselves any damage-"

The guard who was not Ari did not seem convinced. "We will not simply take you at your word-"

"Oh yes, I think you will," said Bilbo, his voice cooling. From the sounds of it, he was showing the guard the bead in his hair and ring on his finger that had been given to him when he received lordship. "And Durin is with me. I think that should suffice. Now, kindly get out of the way."

Kíli closed his eyes, and again they began to move. 'Durin is with me," was a dwarven code meaning that all was well. Had Bilbo said 'Durin is _beside_ me,' he would have implied that he was under duress. Kíli wished he could see the guard's face. It was always hilarious when his tiny hobbit father pulled rank on dwarven guards.

"What do you mean, the elves can check…" Ari trailed off as Kíli was carried into the light of the hall, and his eyes grew wide with horror. "What happened?"

"Not here, not now," said Bilbo, a strained look on his pale face. He patted Ari's arm gently. "We want to go home, please."

"Of course," said Ari, his eyes still on Kíli.

"I would wave," Kíli murmured, his voice croakier than he would have liked it to be.

Ari pressed his lips together and nodded, looking far too worried and grown up to be that little child they had met twenty years ago, who was so intrigued by hobbits. "Come," he said. "The servants' tunnels should be empty – they are off limits now to all but the guard. This way."

He led them through a small, half hidden door, and Kíli closed his eyes again. He breathed in deeply. Home. He was home.

"We're nearly there now, Kíli," promised Fíli. "Nearly there. How are you feeling?"

Kíli went to shrug, and when that did not work, he sighed. Though he tried to keep his voice light, it came out more as a near hysterical whisper instead. "Well, can't feel my legs at all. Makes a nice break from the general achiness. I want to get these straps off, Fee, I – I have to be able to move, I need to use my hands, I-"

"Shh. I know. Soon, Kíli, soon. I promise."

Kíli tried to smile.

Sooner than he had thought to hope, they came upon a familiar, glittering staircase, and he was carried up into the royal wings of the kingdom. Straight through his front door, into the company room.

And despite the late hour, sitting by the fire and staring at the newcomers with an expression of sheer shock, was Thorin.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter – I stayed up late to finish it, so I hope it was worth it and apologise for the inevitable typos.**

 **Also, as a note, I do intend on going into more detail as to the plan, and why they thought it was safe enough/worth it. Here, Kíli is in a wee bit of a state, but the details are there, and will be revealed in due time, including how the eagles got there and why, who is/was with them, how long it took, what they brought with them, etc. It was not ignored, but nor was it poor Kíli's priority in this bit. Looks like there's more healing to come!**

 **Have a lovely week and I will see you next Monday. As ever, I would be very grateful if you could leave any feedback, I love hearing from you.**


	71. Chapter 71: The Bittersweet Homecomings

**Here I am, Monday and all! I hope you enjoy this chapter, it was very difficult to write. With any luck, there won't be any typos to apologise for, but we know that I have little lucky with that.**

 **Chapter Seventy-One: The Bittersweet Homecomings**

Thorin felt all the strength drain out of him, and his tankard slipped from his fingers. It hit the ground with a clang, and ale soaked through his slippers, squelching uncomfortably between his toes, and with the sensation came the unbelievable thought that this was not a dream.

That standing in front of him, in a windswept and weary group, were his family.

But that could not be true, and his frantic heart told him as much as it raced like a hummingbird in his chest. The city was surrounded – there was no way in or out, and he had not heard from his kin in months.

And if they really were here, that would mean that half of them were not.

That his hobbits, and Bombur's children, and Soren and Bifur and Ori and Thorin's little Frodo and dear Kíli were missing.

Unable to breathe, he stood, grabbing the arm of his chair when his knees shook beneath him like they were made of water.

"Hello, Thorin," murmured Dís, her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry that we did not write."

Thorin shook his head slowly, his head beginning to spin. Was this real? Could this truly be real? His eyes roamed over the group before him, and then he noticed that Fíli was carrying something. He lowered his gaze, and his heart stumbled.

Fíli was holding a stretcher – a stretcher that Kíli was bound to.

Barely able to breathe, Thorin swallowed, and tried to speak. "What – how – _Dís?"_

"Eagles," she said, her voice cracking slightly. "The eagles brought us."

Unable to bear it a second longer, whether it was a dream or waking life, Thorin surged across the room and seized his sister, throwing his arms around her and pulling her close. But as her arms wove around his neck and her face pressed into his shoulder, he felt something else.

Something very big, pressed between them.

He pulled back, though his hands would not leave her shoulders, and looked down.

Pregnant.

Dís was, heavily, pregnant.

Shock flooded through him and he took a step back, looking at Fíli, and then at his brother. He could see the tacky tracks of half-dried tears on his youngest nephew's pale face, but when he met Thorin's eyes, Kíli gave a weak smile.

The king's knees buckled.

Dís grabbed him before he could hit the floor, and as her hands tightened around his arm, Thorin's mind slowly started to accept the fact that this could be real.

"Where are the rest of you?" he rasped, taking in the way that Kíli was strapped and bound to the stretcher.

There was a moment of silence, in which Thorin's heart flinched, but then Bilbo, the ever-reliable Bilbo, spoke.

"Scattered," he said, and then he cleared his throat. "But alive, as far as we know. Except… except Soren. He – we lost him. A month ago."

"Soren?" Grief surged through Thorin like a tidal wave, and when he saw the look grief on his family's faces, his heart broke in two. "I – I am very sorry to hear that."

Fíli offered his uncle a weak smile, but there was a sheen of pain in his eyes, and then he glanced down at his brother. Understanding passed between them, one of those wordless conversations that Thorin could never interpret but loved to watch, on better days.

Fíli cleared his throat. "We need to get Kíli to bed, so the elves can get these restraints off him."

Elves? Thorin frowned slightly, but the look of fear on Kíli's face made sure that the king did not mention the two elves that he could see lingering just outside the door. Instead, he said, "What happened?"

"It's a long story," said Bilbo, putting a hand on Thorin's arm. "Let's get Kíli comfortable, and then we will tell you everything."

A part of Thorin wanted to protest, and demand to be told exactly what was wrong with his sister-son right here and right now, but he held his tongue and nodded. He wove his way out of the door, locking arms briefly with everyone that he passed, and led the way to Kíli's quarters, opening them with the key around his neck. He had carried the keys to all his family's rooms on a chain since they left. It made them feel a little less far away.

Now, he quickly lit the torches in Kíli's quarters and led the way to the bedroom, holding open the door so that Fíli and Bragi could hoist the stretcher up onto the bed. The two elves stepped in then, Tauriel, and another woman that Thorin recognised vaguely as one of Thranduil's healers.

They released Kíli slowly, carefully unstrapping his arms and legs, and his head and chest and hips and neck. Every part of Thorin's nephew had been restrained so fully, and a list of horrific reasons why spiralled through the king's mind. Eventually, the elves lifted Kíli from the stretcher and onto the bed, and Tauriel pinched his fingers, instructing him to tell her what he felt. When she was apparently satisfied, she lifted his tunic to reveal something that looked like hardened white cloth. She nodded, and then pulled the tunic back into place, and pulled the covers up over Kíli's chest.

At once the young dwarf wiggled his arms out from underneath the blanket, and Tauriel passed him a small vial of tonic, which he drained at once. Then, he held out his hand and reached out for Thorin. Pressing his lips together to keep them from shaking, the king took his nephew's hand in both of his own, and then looked to his sister.

"Well, there's no point us all staying here, if we might put others out of their misery," she murmured, looking to the crowd around the door. "Go home. Tell your families that you are safe, and how much you have done for us."

"Are you sure?" said Bofur, his voice oddly grim. Thorin glanced at the toymaker, and was surprised to see that his eyes were heavy and dark, and his hat was not on his head. "Is there anything else you need?"

Dís embraced Bofur fiercely, and then pulled away, shaking her head. "Your family deserves to know you are alive. To know what we know. We will be fine."

Slowly, Bofur nodded, and he embraced everyone in the room before heading for the door. "Come on," he said to the elves. "Let's find you a guest room."

Glóin and Nori left a moment later, and Ehren followed, though he lingered by the door.

Bragi and Vinca had not made to move. The young hobbit was curled up in the corner, her eyes glazed over with thought and her arms wrapped around her stomach. Bragi's eyes were closed, and it was only when Fíli put a hand on his arm that he opened them.

"I… I don't think I can go home," he whispered. "I – don't know how to tell them…"

Fíli engulfed Bragi in his arms, Thorin turned away, a lump in his throat.

"They will want to see you, Bragi," said Bilbo softly. "You are welcome to stay here, you are always welcome here, but I think that Ragan and Svana should hear this from you. They will want to see you."

"I'll come with you," said Ehren in a low voice. "For as long as you need me to be there."

Bragi took a slow, deep breath, and nodded, standing up straight. "Alright," he whispered.

Without another word, Ehren strode back into the room and wove his arm around Bragi's shoulder, leading him out into the hall. That left only Vinca, and she looked up with tears on her cheeks.

"If it's all the same, I would rather stay here," she murmured. "I do not want to stay alone in an empty home."

"Of course," said Dís at once, at the same moment that Bilbo said, "My old bedroom is all yours."

"Thank you," she said, looking slowly up at them. "I might go to bed. I – I do not want to hear everything again. Living it once was enough for now."

Thorin passed her another key from around his neck, and she hugged him, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

"It's good to see you, Thorin," she said. "We missed you."

And then she was gone.

"Right," said Bilbo, his voice shaking only slightly. "I'll go and grab another couple of chairs, Dís, you take the armchair. This isn't a standing up story."

"Just get two," said Fíli, moving to sit on the bed beside his brother, but Thorin released Kíli for a moment to take Fíli's arm.

"I am glad to see you alive, Fíli," he said, his tears trying to block the words. "I thought – Glóin will have told you about what Eyja said, and – I have thought the worst for three months, now."

Fíli's arms were around Thorin's neck before the king finished speaking, and Thorin held his nephew as tightly as he dared. Fíli was shaking slightly, and his hands wove into Thorin's hair.

They parted as Bilbo strode back in, dragging two armchairs behind him from Kíli's living room. Fíli sat on the bed beside his brother, and Thorin and Bilbo moved their chair's to Kíli's bedside. Thorin took Kíli's hand, and tried to clear his throat again.

"So," he said eventually, "what trouble have _you_ got yourself into, Kíli Baggins?"

Kíli smiled sadly, squeezing Thorin's hand. "My back is broken."

A cold wave rushed through Thorin, from his head to his toes. "What?"

"I broke my back," Kíli repeated. "In a battle, two weeks ago. And what Eyja saw – that happened, too."

Horror-struck, Thorin looked up at Fíli, who pulled down his tunic to reveal an angry, red, scar.

"You're not starting at the beginning, boys," said Bilbo wearily. Then, with a sigh, he told Thorin of all that had occurred since Frodo's birthday party.

When he had finished, Thorin could not move.

He had almost lost both Fíli and Kíli.

Bofin, son of Bombur, had lost his legs, and was trapped in Rivendell.

Dís had risked her life travelling with a child in her womb.

Soren, son of Ragan, was dead.

Beorn, and his daughter, and his son-in-law, were dead.

The Beornings were displaced, and almost destroyed.

Thranduil, _Thranduil,_ had been instrumental in delivering his kin back to him.

And Frodo – his little Frodo – had waltzed off to Mordor with the Ring of Power, with a gang of children, an adolescent dwarf, a couple of men, and an elf for protection.

"Uncle?" edged Kíli. "Say something."

Thorin shook his head slightly, and opened his mouth. Then he closed it again. Finally, he managed a few words. "You were only going to a birthday party."

Kíli laughed, and Fíli grinned, and Thorin felt a surge of relief. They could still laugh, even if the sound was weary. They could still grin, even with their eyes heavy with grief.

"You should not have risked the flight to the mountain," he said, wincing internally when the smiles wiped from the boy's faces. "To see you is more joy than I could ever ask for, but if anything had happened on the way – it would have destroyed me that you took such a risk."

"But we didn't just bring ourselves," protested Kíli. "We brought food – those big bags the elves were carrying, and seeds! Thranduil's given us two fields' worth of seeds from a sort of corn that grows with almost no light. He said it could help feed everyone in the mountain if the stores run low. There's also bandages and healing tonics, and plenty of lembas."

"What on earth is lembas?" asked Thorin, employing every muscle in his face to prevent himself from sneering.

"Elven waybread. It's like cram, only thrice as filling, and four times as delicious," said Fíli. "What's more, Tauriel and Elbeth have agreed to stay until the siege ends, to help with the wounded. And with Kíli."

"Have they, now?" grumbled Thorin. That thought did not make him feel much better, although – principal aside – he liked Tauriel.

"You will not evict them from this mountain, Thorin Oakenshield," his sister snapped, and before he could defend himself she went on, "That would be nothing less than an execution, and they have both risked their lives to save your nephew. Tauriel has saved your family more than once-"

"I never said I would evict them," interrupted Thorin, scowling at her. "Nor did the thought pass my mind. But there will be folk here very unhappy about elves in the mountain. They've only just got used to the Menfolk."

She scowled back. "Don't scowl at me."

Before Thorin could snarl back, Bilbo laughed slightly. "Alright, alright. Dís, Thorin has a lot to process, and he looks like he hasn't been sleeping or eating enough. Be nice. Thorin, Dís is very pregnant and hormonal, and just as tired as you are. Be nice."

Thorin shook his head and rubbed his jaw, but he was too used to Bilbo talking to him and Dís like five-year-old siblings to be offended. They _were_ acting like children, though he would never admit it aloud.

Instead, he looked at Kíli. "Are you in any pain?"

Kíli shook his head a little. "Not right now. Elves make good pain draughts."

Thorin ran a hand through Kíli's hair. "Well, I am glad for that. And, though I am still not pleased that you took so great a risk, I am glad that you are here. I have missed you, all of you, very much."

"I missed you too," murmured Kíli, closing his eyes.

"We should let you sleep, my lad," murmured Bilbo. "I know the flight wasn't easy for you."

"What're you talking about?" grumbled Kíli, his eyes still closed. "I loved soaring through the air without being able to move a single limb. Very liberating."

"I could do with sleep," murmured Dís, easing herself out of the chair. Bilbo and Thorin both got to their feet, and she smiled at them. "Goodnight, my darlings." She kissed Fíli's forehead, and then Kíli's.

"I'll come with you," said Bilbo, "unless you boys need anything?"

Fíli and Kíli shook their heads.

"I'll hit Fee if I need anything," said Kíli.

"I'm not going anywhere," Fíli promised.

Weariness hit Thorin like a truck, but he was afraid to stand up. He was afraid that if he slept, he would wake to find that this was a dream. He embraced his sister and kissed her cheeks, and he hugged Bilbo too, for good measure. After so long, and so much fear, he found affection far easier to give.

"Uncle Thorin?"

He turned, and was instantly hit by Kíli's gaze – weary and clouded, but imploring.

"Yes, Kíli?"

"You don't have to leave, if you don't want to," Kíli said. The shield of sarcasm had gone from his voice, and he sounded very young.

Smiling sadly, Thorin strode over to the bed and took Kíli's hand. "I think my days of sleeping in chairs are over, Kíli. My back will not thank me in the morning."

Disappointment flickered in Kíli's eyes and lashed across Thorin's heart. "Oh… alright. I understand. It's not very king-like to sleep in a bundle."

Thorin raised his eyebrows, and remembered reprimanding Fíli, Kíli and Frodo, and their numerous cousins, thousands of times for sleeping all over each other. Then he glanced at the side of the bed. There was certainly enough space for him to lie without hurting Kíli.

"If you tell anyone of this," he warned, "I will disown you."

At once, Kíli's eyes lit up, and Thorin knew that it was worth it. He extinguished the torches in the room, and then rested on the bed beside Kíli, close enough to let his nephew snuggle against him with what limited movement he had.

That night, despite all the new things that he had to fear, for the first time in over a year, Thorin slept soundly.

* * *

Bragi took a slow, deep breath, and stopped walking. Feeling much like he was caught in a nightmare, he turned slowly to face the door to Soren's parents' house. For years, in the privacy of their own home at least, he had called them his parents. Now, it felt wrong to do so. Selfish, presumptuous. All he felt was grief and shame. The ward should not have survived where the true son had not. It was so wrong. So, so wrong.

Ehren put a hand on his shoulder. "You don't have to do this now, Bragi," he said, but Bragi shook his head.

"Yes," he breathed "Yes, I do. You can go, Ehren."

"Are you sure?" Ehren turned him slightly, fixing Bragi with an uncommonly piercing stare. "Because if it will help you, I will stay all night."

Bragi grasped Ehren's hand tightly, and gave what sad hint of a smile he could manage these days. "I know. And I am grateful. But I do not think that I want an audience. I need to do this now, and I need to do it alone."

Ehren hesitated, and then squeezed Bragi's shoulder. "Alright," he said slowly. "I'll be at my parents, if you need anything."

"Thank you, Ehren. I'll see you tomorrow," he said. As Ehren walked away down the dark mountain street, Bragi sighed. Perhaps he would be seeing Ehren later this evening. He would not blame Ragan or Svana for wanting some time alone to mourn their son.

A tiny part of him, a part that sounded oddly like Soren, scolded him for even thinking that they would send him away, but he was too weary to listen. As the days passed, it had become easier to breathe through the grief that seized him, but now it was crushing his lungs as fiercely as it had a month ago. He took another steadying breath, raised his fist, and knocked on the door.

There was a long wait, and he lowered his head, knocking again. Another long, needling pause, and then the door opened, and there, with a lantern in his hand and his dressing gown inside out, was Ragan.

Sleep had clouded his eyes, and disgruntlement his face, but the moment that he saw Bragi, his expression changed.

"Bragi," he whispered, and he threw himself out of the door, engulfing Bragi in a hug so fierce that the young dwarf's tears broke free. "Thank the Valar. Where is Soren?"

Bragi opened his mouth, but he could not form the words. His eyes clenched shut and he tried to swallow back his sobs, but they broke free from him anyway, and his fingers sank into Ragan's gown.

"Bragi? Bragi, what happened?"

"I'm sorry!" Bragi sobbed, anguish racking through his body as fiercely as it had at Moria. "I'm sorry, Ragan, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Why? Bragi-" Ragan pulled out of Bragi's arms and seized him by the shoulders. He looked pale and afraid, and Bragi looked away. "Bragi, look at me! Tell me, why are you sorry? Where is Soren?"

Bragi could not look up, not even when Ragan shook him. Instead, he stared at the floor, at the tears dripping against stone that Soren would never stand on again. The words broke from him in gasps and sobs, and tore at his throat like razors.

"He – he was shot. He – they shot him, Ragan, and he – he didn't – Ragan I lost him, I lost him, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

"Look at me!" Ragan demanded, and he shook him again, hard. "Is he dead? Tell me, Bragi, is my son dead?"

Collapsing in on himself, Bragi sobbed, and nodded. "Y-yes. I'm sorry, Ragan, I'm so sorry."

Ragan's grip eased from his shoulders, and his voice lowered to a rasp. "He's gone? Soren – he is really gone?"

Bragi could not say it again. He nodded, and Ragan gave a sob of his own.

"Oh, Mahal… Oh, my son… _no…"_ With a gasp, Ragan flung himself at Bragi again, embracing him fiercely. "Oh, Bragi..."

"I'm sorry," Bragi whispered, but Ragan shook his head.

"No, lad, don't be sorry," he said, his voice shaking. "This is not your fault."

Shock shot through him, and it was Bragi's turn to pull away. "Wh-what? How could, how could you say that? You do not know what happened, Ragan-"

"Please, Bragi," the dwarf's voice cracked. "I know you, I know Soren. I know you would do whatever you could to protect him. You always have."

Bragi broke.

His knees buckled beneath him, and Ragan caught him, and every ounce of strength that stood between Bragi and his anguish crumbled. Crying like a baby, he clung to Ragan, and when he heard the footsteps of Svana coming to investigate the noise, he sobbed all the more. He did not hear what words Ragan said to his wife, but he heard her wail. He heard her sobs join his own and Ragan's, and he felt her hand on the back of his hair.

Even later, Bragi never really knew how long they laid there, tangled together in a mess of limbs and grief, but eventually he had no strength left to sob any more. Ragan was the first to stand, and he helped Bragi and Svana up. At once, she wrapped her arms around the young dwarf.

"I have had so many nightmares," she whispered, her voice shaking almost as badly as her hands. "I thought it would be both of you. I'm so glad you are home, Bragi."

"Come," said Ragan, his voice a croaking echo of itself. "I will fetch some tea. Then, Bragi, will you tell us what happened?"

Bragi nodded mutely. How could he not tell them? How would he not be ever in their debt, ever bound to whatever it was they would ask of him? He had returned, and their son had not. How could he ever look at them with anything other than guilt again?

 _Because they don't blame you_ , said the voice in his head, the one that sounded so achingly close to _Soren. Because it is not your fault, and because they are your parents, too. Ward or son, it is all the same to them. It always has been the same to them._

He closed his eyes. He felt Svana's hands on his arm, trembling and gentle but there, guiding him into their living room. Leading him onto the couch. He sat when she did, and breathed in deeply.

"I truly am sorry," he said in a low voice, hoping that Ragan could not hear him. He did not want to irk the dwarf with repeated apologies. "I tried to watch over him, Svana, but I – I was too late. I'm so sorry."

She shushed him, but did not speak. Her tears were flowing freely, and she wrapped her arms around him. After a long moment, she whispered, "Please. I have been your Amad for so long, do not take that name from me now. I cannot lose both my sons, Bragi. I cannot lose you both."

Trying desperately not to sob again, Bragi nodded, and pressed his face into her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Amad."

"I know, pet," she whispered. "I know."

A few minutes later, Ragan returned, with a few more candles and a pot of steaming tea. He poured three cups, and then sat back, opposite Svana and Bragi.

"When you are ready," he said gently.

Bragi sipped his tea. It tasted sweet and light, like home in a cup, and just a little of the tension left his shoulders. Then, he began to talk.

Though his throat ached and his heart hurt, he told Soren's parents everything – of Gandalf and Nazgul and Rivendell, of the ring and Frodo's decision, of the frantic flight to catch him –

Of the battle at the gates.

And the burial of their baby.

And with everything that he had, he told them what happened afterwards. He told them of the Beornings plight, and their plan, and the battle that he had fought in mere weeks ago. He told them of Kíli's wounds, and of how they had at last flown to Erebor on the backs of eagles from the north east, high enough to stay out of range of the orcs.

When he finished, the tea was gone, and the cup in his hands was cold.

"Thank you for telling us this," said Ragan softly. "It… it couldn't have been easy. I – I am glad that you were with him."

Bragi lowered his eyes, but found the strength to murmur, "Me too."

Svana stood and swayed, and she spoke softly. "Excuse me." She turned, but then she stopped and turned back. She took Bragi's face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead, before pressing her forehead to his.

"I love you so much, Bragi. I am proud of you."

Then she turned, and went to the bedroom. Even with the door closed, the pillows did little to muffle her sobs. Ragan rose too, but only to move and sit on the sofa beside Bragi. "I know that it must have been hard to tell us," he said. "Thank you."

"Anything," Bragi croaked.

Ragan shifted uncomfortably, and through the grief on his face, Bragi could see concern. "How… How are you, Bragi? I know that you must be in as much pain as we are, but you… You have had a month, you say? How are you?"

"Forty-seven days," Bragi mumbled. He paused, and though he knew it was not his turn to confide, to seek comfort, he could not help but think of the awful memories gnawing at his mind. "I – it has been difficult. Can… Can I tell you something?"

"Of course," said Ragan, though his voice was raw.

"When I the monster went down, after… When Soren… When the water dragged me down, there was a moment when I wanted to let it take me. I wanted – I wanted it to take me away, to take it all away, but… A part of me knew that wasn't what he would want, but, a bigger part of me was scared. He must have been so scared…" Once again, Bragi broke into tears like a child, and once again, Ragan's arm wrapped tightly around him. "I'm sorry," he gasped, "I shouldn't, I shouldn't have, you've just found out and I must be strong and-"

"Shh. Hush now," said Ragan thickly. "This is our grief, Bragi, it belongs to the both of us. I doubt you were able to speak of this on the road. Listen, now. Soren is… Soren was my son. I love him more than can be said, and he will ever be the greatest thing that I have ever created. But you – you, Bragi, are the best decision I have ever made. I love you very much, my son. Let go of your guilt, Bragi. The grief is heavy enough."

And in a blink, inside the span of a heartbeat, Bragi knew. Despite everything, despite this grief that would never lift, and the hole that could never be filled, he was still, finally, home.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter. I nearly cried in public three times while writing, so, you're welcome. Initially we were also going to see Bofur, Nori and Glóin getting home, too (and giving a little more detail re elves and escape plans) but it was not easy to write so that's been bumped to the next chapter. I hope that it was worth it for you guys, and that you enjoyed this one.**

 **Please do let me know, your feedback is highly appreciated. Thank you very much, and take care of yourselves!**


	72. Chapter 72: Breaking News to Brothers

**Yo! Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter! This one was a little easier to write, though it's still not the happiest. I hope that you enjoy it anyway, and forgive any typos that I've made today.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Two: Breaking News to Brothers**

FBofur had always had a key to his brother's home.

Growing up in such a poor family, as children they did not even have the luxury of their own beds. For the majority of their childhood, Bofur and Bombur had shared a room – and a bed, for that matter – with their older brother, Bodur, and their youngest cousin, Bifur's little brother, Biorr. Even then, Bombur had needed a little space to call his own. He used to curl up in a fort beneath their bed, shrouded by blankets that he would only open if you had the password.

Bofur was the only one who always knew the password.

They were still only children when that home was torn from them. The orcs had ravaged the little mountain village, pillaging house after house after house, and little Biorr had been killed as he ran for the door. Bifur's mother bundled her nephews into their tiny bedroom along with Boa, their sister, and pressed her body against the door to hold it shut as she ordered them to hide. Bodur hid in the blanket box at the end of the bed, and Boa tucked herself into the cupboard, and Bombur and Bofur had curled up beneath the bed. In Bombur's blanket fort.

No one else in the room survived.

But Bofur had the key to his brother's home, and it had let them both survive.

Bifur, too, had lived of course, and as soon as he left the Healing Halls, he gathered what money they left had to rent a single room for the three young dwarves to live in. There were two keys, and Bifur had one. As he was the oldest, the other key went to Bofur.

When they had earned enough money to move to the Blue Mountains, Bofur had been able to find them a modest little house not far from the main city. After a while, they were even able to scrape together the rent for a small toy-stand in the market place. They lived together, and shared everything, and they each had a key of their own.

Then, Bombur had met Marta, and when they had wed, she moved in with them. When she fell pregnant with Bofin, they found a place of their own, a few doors down from Bifur and Bofur. And on the day that he had moved into his own house, Bombur had given a spare key to Bofur.

And then, through a series of impossible events, they had found a home in Erebor, and they had become lords, and for the first time Bofur and Bifur and Bombur could comfortably afford houses of their own, with as much space as they could ever need.

And still, Bofur had a key to his brother's door.

With his weight of his baggage still biting into his shoulders, Bofur sighed heavily, and slid the key into Bombur's front door. He did not want to knock. That would wake his brother's youngest children, and they did not need to be woken. Not like this. For them, this news could wait until morning.

With a stealth garnered from years of watching hobbits, Bofur crept towards Bombur's bedroom, but just before he reached it he paused, transfixed by the mural on the wall of the hallway. Ori had completed it only days before they had left for the Shire, and Bofur had proclaimed then that it was the young scribe's greatest work. Painting directly onto the smooth stone of the wall, Ori had painstakingly captured the image of Bombur's family with the accuracy of a mirror.

Bombur and Marta stood in the centre, smiling soft smiles that sparkled in their eyes. Next to Bombur was Bofin, grinning proudly, standing as he would never stand again, an innocence in his eyes that had yet to be broken. Beside Marta was Bróin, his arm wrapped around his mother and mischief screaming from his smile. His casual, cocky pose was one of youth and ignorance – the look of a boy who still believed that he was untouchable. A boy who had slipped through Bofur's fingers, and run headlong into danger before his uncle could catch him.

In the painting, Bróin's hand was on Bolin's shoulder, and the young boy was grinning so intently that his face seemed split in two. Bofur had thought it mighty bad luck when the little lad had broken his leg before they were due to leave, but now he knew that it was a blessing, and one that he would never stop thanking the Valar for. It was one less nephew to leave on the other side of the world, one less child put in danger for the simple matter of a birthday party.

Beside Bolin was Bodin, with one arm around his little brother and the other clutching the little 'baker' doll that Bifur had made for him last Christmas. Bofur could not look at the boy's smile without seeing a different expression in his mind's eye – the heartbroken fear and confusion that Bodin had worn when Bofur had left him behind in the Shire. The twins stood next to him, but they too were a world away. Orla was holding baby Olin in her arms, and the baby was tugging on her sister's braid. He wondered if Olin would even remember Orla and Ola. She was just an infant, and the girls had been gone so long.

Would be gone for so much longer.

The final member of the family, toddler Bowin, was standing next to Ola in the picture, his eyes wide and his smile small. There was a soulful look to his tiny, chubby face, almost as though he had some idea of what was about to come.

Bombur had trusted his brother to look after his children, and Bofur had failed. They were broken apart, scattered over miles of earth and sundered by kingdoms and armies. Guilt and bile rose in his throat, and he looked away from the wall.

How… _how_ … was he supposed to tell Bombur what had happened? They had already lost so much, buried so many of their kin. Bombur had barely survived losing their brother and sister and father – Bofur did not know if he would survive losing his children.

But for now, they were not lost. That was something that Bofur knew he could cling to, something that he knew Bombur would soon seize as well. The little ones had the hobbits to care from them, and Bofin had Bifur and the elves. As for Bróin… Well, at least he had Gandalf with him, and no shortage of capable fighters around him.

Taking a deep breath, Bofur stepped up to his little brother's bedroom door.

And knocked.

He heard he soft groan from inside, and knocked again.

"Go to bed, Bolin," mumbled Marta's voice, muffled by sleep and the door between them.

Bofur cleared his throat and steeled himself, and murmured back. "Bolin is in bed, lass."

Marta gasped so sharply that Bofur heard it through the door, and he heard her rouse Bombur even as her feet hit the floor, and her footsteps hurried to the door. It flew open, and there was his sister-in-law in nothing but a nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders.

"Oh, Bofur, thank the Valar!" she gasped, throwing her arms around him. Feeling very much that he did not deserve such an embrace, Bofur hugged her back, watching over her shoulder as Bombur hurried over. Marta pulled away and looked behind him, but Bofur shook his head slightly.

"It's just me, Marta. The others are – elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" she whispered, and Bombur froze where he stood, one arm outstretched towards Bofur. "What does that mean?"

"It means it's a long story, and they aren't all in the same place. We've been scattered."

"Scattered?"

"I think you should sit down, both of you," murmured Bofur, but Bombur shook his head, striding forward and grabbing Bofur's arm tightly.

"Where are my children, Bofur? Are they dead?"

Marta squeaked, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, and Bofur shook his head.

"No, no! They're not, none of them." _As far as I know._

"Then why do I need to sit down?" demanded Bombur, ashen pale. "Is – Mahal is Bifur-"

"No!" Bofur winced, and fought back a shudder, and took a deep breath. "Bofin is… hurt. Bifur is with him."

"Hurt?" whispered Marta. "What do you mean 'hurt,' Bofur?"

For a moment, Bofur did not think that he would be able to say it. His throat closed, and his heart clenched, and tears fought to be freed from his eyes. But he saw the look on Bombur's face, and he knew that he could not prolong the wait, even if he did not know how to best say it.

"His legs," he said huskily, and he felt his eyes water. He swallowed, and wiped his eyes. "He's lost his legs."

"His… legs?" Bombur's eyes bored into Bofur's, and the horror in them was so deep that it could have dwarfed Khazad-dûm. Out of the corner of his eye, Bofur could see Marta swaying, see tears slipping down her cheeks to rest on her hands, still clamped over her mouth. He could not look at her, though. He could not tear his gaze away from his baby brother, and the anguish on his face.

"There was, a battle," explained Bofur, in a voice that croaked and broke on every other word. "And in the middle of it all, a beast like I have never seen before brought down the side of a mountain onto Bofin and – there was nothing we could do. He was trapped, and we couldn't get him out without… But he's alive, and the elves are looking after him. Elrond's elves, the good ones, and Bifur and Ori are with him, too."

Marta groaned and swayed, and Bombur's grip on Bofur's arm tightened painfully. When he spoke, Bombur sounded like a child himself. "He is… he is legless?"

Bofur nodded. "I'm sorry, Bombur. I'm so sorry."

"The others?" Bombur whispered, and Marta grabbed onto his shoulder to stop from falling.

"Well, Bodin and the girls are still in the Shire," said Bofur quickly, coughing to clear his throat again. "They're with the Tooks and Brandybucks, and pretending to be good little hobbit bairns, I don't doubt. You know Esme and Ellie - they won't let anyone near them, they're safe."

"And Bróin?"

Bróin.

Bofur had not thought that anything would be harder than explaining to Bombur what had happened to Bofin, but once again, Bróin had pulled the rug out from beneath Bofur's feet. In the end, he decided to simply put things as bluntly as possible.

"Bróin ran away to Mordor to destroy the Ring of Power."

Bombur blinked three times. "He what?"

Bofur sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It turns out that Bilbo's magic ring was actually the one ring of power, and we'd planned to go to Mordor to destroy it. We had everything planned. But we didn't plan for Frodo. He didn't want Bilbo to go, so he took the ring and the quest himself. Bróin and Nelly went with him, and so did my Sam, and Merry and Pippin. Gimli is too, but we think he joined after, with Aragorn the Ranger, Boromir of Gondor, and Thranduil's son. We chased them, of course we did, but when we caught them, the orcs caught us. It was at the gates of Moria, and the young'uns went inside and the fighting began and… Bofin tried to get to his brother, but the monster in the water pulled him back. And then… that's when it brought the wall down."

Marta moaned, losing what little colour she had left. With tears sparkling in his eyes, Bombur whispered, "Was he crushed? Bofur, was Bróin-"

"No, I don't think so. No. He was much further inside."

"Inside _Moria_?"

"Gandalf is with them, now. He'll look after them. But Bifur took Bofin back to Rivendell, and Bofin begged me to find his brother. Just like you asked me to protect your children. I've failed both of you."

Bombur flinched, and stumbled back to lean against the doorframe, his hand leaving Bofur's arm for the first time.

But Marta stepped forward, the tears that danced down her cheeks impeding her speech a little. "No, Bofur, no. You have not failed us. I do not believe that you did any less than you could. I think… I think we need to hear everything, and I think we should sit. Why are you still holding so many bags, Bofur?"

Bofur did not answer. He looked at Bombur, and knew that his brother would understand.

"Put down your bags, brother," whispered Bombur. "I don't want you leaving my sight again tonight."

They sat in the living room for the tale, and lit only a single lamp. No one wanted to wake up the little ones. Marta fetched three flagons of honey mead, and Bofur began to tell the worst story of his life. He had told unhappy tales before, and taken over truths that were too hard for others to tell. In the Shire, for example, when Bilbo and Kíli had first returned to Erebor, he had been the one to tell the hobbits and Dís of the battles and torments that they had endured.

Telling such stories had been painful, but the pain was nothing beside this. To watch his brother's face contort in sorrow and pain as he was told of his children being left behind, and running away, and fighting in real battles – it brought a guilt more intense than any Bofur had thought himself capable of feeling. Watching Bombur suffer, watching Marta suffer – it was worse than reliving the horror himself. When he reached the end of the tale, he felt rather like he had just run fifty miles. He hung his head, and waited for Bombur to speak.

But the words that Bombur spoke surprised him.

"I've got to go."

Bofur looked up, and Marta grabbed Bombur's arm.

"What are you talking about?" she said, and Bombur nodded.

"I have to go, I have to go and find Bróin, and grab him by the ear and bring him home," said Bombur tightly, pushing up onto his feet.

"I tried," said Bofur miserably. "I tried, and it ended in Moria, and I tried again in Mirkwood."

Bombur paused, staring at him. "What are you talking me about?"

Bofur sighed heavily. "I wasn't going to say anything. Nothing came of it, and I – I didn't want you to think I was trying to make myself look better… In Mirkwood, when we knew that the eagles could carry us home, I tried to go after Bróin again. Nori and me. But Bilbo caught us, and asked us what we thought we could really do. Said he'd come with us if he thought we might actually help. But there was nothing we could do. Trying to track them down, we'd only draw attention to them. Put them in greater danger. So we fell back. Even if there was anything you could do now, how would you even leave the mountain? If the eagles hadn't flown out of arrow range, we never woulda made it, even going so far out to the north east. Without spreading wings of our own, we're not leaving."

"He is my son," said Bombur, his voice trembling, and Bofur let himself sob.

"You think I don't know that? I love him too, Bombur, and don't forget that Sam's out there too! If he isn't the nearest thing _I'll_ ever get to a son…"

Bombur's lower lip trembled, and he crumpled back down to the couch. "He's just a child."

"I know," groaned Bofur, kneading his fists into his eyes. "I know."

"So, what do we do now?" whispered Marta, her eyes staring at Bofur with infallible trust. He was always the one who knew what to do. Always the one with a practical answer and a warm smile. Tonight, he had neither.

"All we can do," he said glumly. "We pray."

* * *

The sun rose red in the mountains, sending an array of beautiful pinks and yellows to light the water flooding the ruins of Isengard. There was an odd sort of peace to the place, now that the fighting had stopped. With the orcs dead and their huts drowned, the tower of Orthanc could almost be called beautiful – though several parts of its outer walls were missing chunks. Birds flew overhead, singing songs of the morning with so much joy that it seemed obvious that they, too, were celebrating the victory of the ents.

Pippin thought that there was no way they could be celebrating in any manner better than himself and Merry. To their delight, they had found one of Saruman's storerooms, complete with an array of delicious foods as exotic as olives from Ithilien, and as decadent as salted pork, and even some pipe weed. They had taken their spoils out to what was left of the main gate of Isengard, to await the arrival of Gandalf, as Treebeard had instructed. The old ent said he was sure that the wizard would be along soon. How he was sure of this, Pippin did not know, but he thought it best not to question Treebeard. The answer would probably go on until Pippin was as old as the wizard, himself!

And so, without questioning the 'why's or 'when's or 'how's, Merry and Pippin had spent the morning eating and smoking, and throwing sticks for Denahi to chase into Fangorn. The wolf was a lot more comfortable around the ents, now, having seen them hurl great boulders at orcs, and all. Earlier, he had even licked Treebeard's hand in appreciation.

Now, though, Denahi was snoozing, his head in Merry's lap. Merry was blowing smoke rings up to join the wistful clouds in the sky, and Pippin was heaving a wonderful time thinking about nothing at all. Nothing but the weather, and the beauty of the colours of the lake, and how nice it was just to sit, with a full belly, and breathe.

But then he heard hoofbeats, and Denahi raised his head, and Merry looked up.

"Is that them?" said Pippin, a wave of cold washing over him when he thought about who it might be instead.

"I think so," said Merry slowly, though from the way he sucked on his pipe, he seemed less concerned. His ease – along with the fact that Denahi was not growling – let Pippin relax a little, and then he saw the first horse, and a blonde-haired man astride it, and excitement curled in his stomach.

He and Merry got to their feet and bowed in the manner of the dwarves, as well as Balin had taught them, as the entire party of horseman came into view.

"Welcome, my lords," said Merry with a grin, "to Isen-"

" _Gimli_!" cried Pippin, his heart leaping as his eyes landed on the dwarf.

"-gard," finished Merry, swatting Pippin on the arm. Then, he turned, and addressed the blonde man beside Gandalf. "I am sorry, Théoden King. My cousin does know manners-"

"To the privy with manners!" growled Gimli, launching himself off of the full-sized horse that he was riding and charging forwards. Pippin leapt down from the rubble and tumbled into the dwarf's arms, feeling the warmth of safety return fully to his veins. He hugged his dwarven cousin tightly, and Gimli squeezed him back, holding a hand out to Merry.

Pippin caught sight of an apologetic smile that Merry sent to Théoden, but then the older hobbit leapt down too, and threw himself into Gimli's waiting arms.

"You've led us on a mighty chase," said the dwarf, his voice shaking. "Scared me something awful, don't you _dare_ do that again."

Pippin laughed. "You sound like my mother." But he held Gimli a little tighter, anyway. Then, Pippin looked over Gimli's shoulder at Gandalf, who was shaking his head and laughing, and Legolas, who looked oddly pale, and –

"Boromir! You're alive!"

Boromir laughed even as he dismounted his own horse, and Pippin felt relief and joy sweep up through him.

"I could say the same to you!" said Boromir, embracing Merry and Pippin fiercely. "I am sorry that-"

Pippin raised his eyebrows as high as they could go, and put his hands on his hips so that he could fully imitate Nelly as he cut over the man, "Oh, you're sorry that you were terribly injured to the point where we thought you were dead, so you couldn't rescue us?"

Boromir shook his head sheepishly, even as Merry embraced him too. Pippin looked up, and beamed at Aragorn, who bowed his head, and then at Legolas. There, Pippin's smile faded.

"Legolas! You're hurt!" he worried. The elf's arm was tucked into a sling, and when Legolas smiled, it was a little smaller than usual.

"A broken arm," he said softly. "Nothing more. I would not be left behind. After fearing you dead once, I had no desire to fear it again."

Pippin smiled sheepishly, and tapped his heels together.

"Hobbits," said Gandalf, turning to the man that Pippin assumed was Théoden, "are a remarkable people. They know and value propriety more than most, but are quick to damn it in the face of family reunions."

"I can see that," said the blonde man. His eyes fixed on Merry, and he inclined his head slightly. "I believe we have met before. Master Brandybuck, if I am not mistaken?"

Merry nodded. "At your service, my lord. I was only a child the last time we met. I'm surprised you remembered."

"Well, one does not forget a three-legged wolf very quickly," said Théoden with a smile, nodding at Denahi. "Nor does one forget a tiny boy that makes demands of a king. Well met, Master Meriadoc. And this is Peregrin Took, I take it?"

Pippin nodded, and then remembered his manners. "At your service, King Théoden. How did it all go at your end?"

The man between Théoden and Aragorn laughed. "That we are standing here at all ought to be a good indicator of that," he said. Then, he added, "Éomer, son of Éomund. After hearing so much about you from your companions, it is good to meet you at last. I am sorry that I did not see you the night we slew the uruk-hai."

Pippin's eyes widened. "That was you? Well, thank you very much."

"Aye," said Merry, putting a hand over his heart and bowing. "We wouldn't have escaped without you."

"Wait," said Pippin, glancing over the other strange men, and peering around for any sign of ponies, or smaller horses. "Where're Nelly and Bróin?"

Legolas' eyes widened, and Éomer looked at Théoden. Aragorn pursed his lips and looked down, and Boromir stiffened. Pippin turned to Gimli, for who could he trust if not Gimli?

"Are they with Frodo?" he asked quietly.

But Gimli's face was crumpling, and his moustache quivered, and Pippin's heart stumbled into a race. Horror clawed its way up his throat, and he looked at Gandalf. The wizard just looked old. Very old, and very, very, sad.

After a moment, when no one else spoke, the wizard shook his head. "No, Peregrin Took. We do not think that they are with Frodo."

Desperation rose in Pippin's throat, and hot, angry tears rose unbidden to his eyes. "Where are they? Where is my sister?" He whirled around and grabbed Gimli's shoulder. "Gimli, where is my sister?"

Gimli took a deep breath, and put one hand on Pippin's shoulder. He pressed his other hand to Pippin's cheek.

And then Gimli's gaze moved slowly, unmistakably, to Orthanc.

 **Duh duh duhhhh! I hope that you enjoyed that chapter, I kept my laptop on way past my screen's off time to get it up for you. If you did – or didn't – please do leave me a review and let me know why, or just let me know if you liked it or not.**

 **Just as a note before we go: yes, it seems very soon for Legolas to be riding to Isengard with such an arm. I haven't forgotten, nor am I disregarding the severity of an open fracture. It will be addressed soon.**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and once again, I really hope that you liked the chapter. Until next time, take care!**


	73. Chapter 73: Voice of Saruman

**Yo! Sorry about the day's delay, I have started going to the gym and it threw off my rota. Anyhow, here we are. I hope you enjoy this chapter – please forgive any exhaustion-fuelled typos.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Three: The Voice of Saruman**

The silence was eerie at the base of the tower. Some of the others gazed at the desolation around them, and the rubble that broke the surface of the muddy water, but Boromir could not tear his eyes away from Orthanc itself. Even with its exterior wounded, and its door guarded by ents, it remained proud and strong, and the black stone seemed to almost shine.

Loathing broiled in the pit of Boromir's stomach, and he tasted bile in his throat. The snake in that tower had ordered an attack on their fellowship, had kidnapped Merry and Pippin and sent an army to murder the people of Rohan. Boromir had watched children die with his own two eyes because Saruman demanded it.

And Saruman might still have Nelly and Bróin in his clutches.

For his part, Boromir still hoped that they were wrong. He had told Merry and Pippin as much, pointing out that they had little evidence beside fears and feelings, but of course that had been of little comfort.

Gandalf had bidden the hobbits to stay with Théoden's guards. He had warned them of the power that Saruman held in his voice, and the danger that he posed even in defeat, and of the men of Rohan only Théoden and Éomer had chosen to come forth. But when asked to stay behind, the hobbits had protested even more fiercely than Legolas had when they had spoken of leaving him in Helm's Deep.

" _We_ were the ones who were here when Isengard fell, and we helped bring down the orcs!" Pippin argued, a growl in his voice as fury and fear flickered in his eyes. "And Nelly is my sister! If she's – if… We're coming."

That anger had melted from Pippin now, or so it seemed. He was sitting before Boromir, on Baelfot, the great horse of Rohan, with his toes were curled up tightly, and his fingers coiled around his cape. Boromir could hear the hobbit's breath coming in short, sharp breaths, and he wrapped his arm protectively around Pippin. The young hobbit shuddered, but grabbed a hold of Boromir's arm before he could move it away.

After what felt like an age, Gandalf urged his horse forward, to stand ahead of the group, and then he let his head tilt back.

"Saruman," he called, his voice grave and commanding. It was not a yell, nor particularly loud, but it permeated everything around them. Boromir felt it resonate inside his chest, and he felt Pippin's fingers tighten around his arm. "Come out. We would speak with you."

Silence replied to him, broken only by the squawk of a passing crow, and the soft, desperate sound of Pippin's hurried breaths.

"He is not coming," snarled Éomer. "The coward sits behind his high walls, too afraid to take that which he gave out himself."

Gandalf held up his hand. "Hush," he said softly. "He is coming. Remember, there is power in his voice. With it, he will seek to enchant you. Take care."

Almost the very second that Gandalf finished speaking, a balcony door opened above them, and a tall, proud man strode out. Everything about him was white, from his long robes to his trailing beard, and Boromir loathed every part of him.

"Well," said Saruman slowly, his voice travelling to them in the same manner as Gandalf's did, though it could hardly be called loud. "What has drawn such mighty lords of men to Isengard, on such a day as this."

There was an evenness to his tone, and a pleasantness to his voice that Boromir could feel tugging at the back of his brain. As the wizard spoke, his voice implored Boromir to listen, and assured him that Saruman was perfectly sound and reasonable, and that it was horrific for him to be treated in such a way.

Boromir ground his teeth together, and dug his nails into his palm until they hurt. He would not be corrupted again. Never, ever again would he let hate and black magic twist his heart and forsake his friends, and his self. He tightened his grip on Pippin, and scowled upwards. Retorts and insults burnt like acid on the end of his tongue, but he held them back. Gandalf had warned them that speaking out of turn could put any prisoners at greater risk, especially if they showed their hand. So Boromir, trembling with rage, waited.

"Enough flattery, Saruman, we all know that you mean no word of it" said Gandalf shortly. "We are here to discuss the terms of your surrender."

A cold smile slipped across Saruman's face, as gentle as a tamed rabbit, and as deadly as a snake. "My surrender?" he repeated, his voice still calm and sympathetic. "And why do you think that I would surrender to you, Gandalf – one who has rebuffed my aid at every turn? To Théoden, perhaps, I might speak – for he has won many wars, and killed many men and yet still found peace. May we not now have peace? Let me help you, King of Rohan – truly aid you beyond the empty promises of the conjurer beside you."

Every time that sympathy tugged at Boromir's heart, he incinerated it with his anger. It seemed that Théoden's thoughts were aligned with his.

"Peace?" he said, his voice shaking. "We will have peace. We will have peace when you answer for the burning of the Westfold, and the children that lie dead there! When you pay for the lives that you have stolen, and the trust that you broke, when you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows – then, we shall have peace."

Boromir growled his agreement under his breath, and glared at Saruman. Even from below, he could see the anger cracking through the wizard's carefully crafted calm. A scowl played on Saruman's lips, and he leant forwards.

"Gibbets and crows," he sneered, and at once his voice was snarling and cruel. "Bah! Your threats are nothing more than desperate lies from a desperate man. You think you have won, but you barely escaped a single battle. You have not won this war, and you never will. Rohan will perish under your command – _you_ , the lesser son of greater sires."

Fury rose in Boromir's chest and he drew himself up, and beside him, Éomer opened his mouth in furious response. But before either man could speak, Gandalf cut over them.

"Enough, Saruman. You were deep in the enemy's counsel. If you tell us what you know, many lives may yet be saved."

A cold laugh descended upon them, and Pippin shivered.

"Many lives? If you have come to try and convince me, Gandalf, you are more naïve a fool than I thought. But I do not think that is why you are here. No – it is not _many_ lives that concern you. It never is, with Gandalf the Grey. Ever professing to be the champion, the saviour, of men, yet at the day's end all he cares for are the few he calls his friends. Yet them, too, he sends away to die. Even those he professes to love."

A seed of horror set in Boromir's stomach at the change in Saruman's tone, and with the wizard's words it grew, gnarled and twisted in his gut. Saruman knew. He knew about Nelly and Bróin. And if he knew about them, what would mean that Gandalf's fears were true.

But it was anger, and not fear, that finally etched into Gandalf's face, and he drew his shoulders back. "Saruman," he boomed, and Pippin flinched at the sound. "If you have any information that may help in this war, I implore you to give it now. It is not too late, my old friend."

But Saruman laughed again, and it sounded twice as wicked as it had before. "Oh, I have information. Information about a young dwarven lordling, and a halfling girl with the manners of a wildling."

Pippin gave a small whimper, and Boromir tightened his arm around the hobbit's chest. Gandalf said nothing, but he stared at the defeated wizard, and Saruman's lips curled back into a hungry smile.

"Bróin, son of Bombur," said Saruman slowly, as though savouring the young dwarf's name on his tongue. "Nelly was the name he gave the girl in his screams, but we know her true name, do we not, Gandalf? Pimpernel Took. A silly name, for a foolish girl."

"What did you do with them?" roared Gimli, ignoring Gandalf's pointed look and Legolas' insistence to hush. "What did you do to them?"

Saruman's smile grew, and Boromir moved so that both of his arms were around the trembling Pippin. The hobbit's own grip on Boromir's arm tightened painfully.

"Well, I arranged a family reunion," said Saruman, an innocence to his voice that made Boromir's stomach turn. "I sent little Bróin away with the uruk-hai, and a ransom demand that will cripple the kingdom of Erebor. When they do not pay – as is inevitable, given the greed of dwarves – the uruk-hai will slaughter him. Though perhaps Thorin Oakenshield will prove me wrong – he might be persuaded to pay for the boy. After all, we did send something ahead to prove that we were serious. The girl's head, in fact. _Just_ her head."

Boromir froze. Horror and disbelief and grief and rage were surging through him like a river breaking through a dam, and for a moment the whole world seemed to slow to a stop.

He heard Gimli's strangled wail and Merry's whispered, 'No!', and he felt Pippin slowly shake his head. He heard Gandalf order them to hush, heard him bark a warning to Saruman that lying was no use, and then, in his arms, Pippin exploded.

"Liar!" he screamed, and he threw himself forwards as if leaping off of the horse could vault him onto Saruman's balcony. Swearing, Boromir managed to hold him back, but Pippin elbowed him in the chest, and then threw his fist back into the man's eye, kicking and flailing as he roared at the wizard above them. "She's not dead, she's not dead! Where is she? Where is she – you're lying, you're lying, you're _lying_!"

Saruman laughed again, and Boromir's stomach heaved. Though his eye throbbed and his chest ached, he kept his arms locked around Pippin, no matter how much the hobbit struggled. He had to keep him here, had to keep him safe.

He had failed Nelly and Bróin.

He could not fail Pippin, too.

"She's alive, she's alive, I know she is!" There were tears streaking down Pippin's cheeks as he yelled, and neither Gandalf's orders nor Merry's tearful pleas could stop him. Though he held him back from a physical attack, Boromir did nothing to stop the verbal tirade. "Where is she, where is she, _baraj'urm?"_

"Denial is not the same as knowledge," said Saruman, his grin so great that his face looked like a skull. "Do you want proof, little halfling? Here. I have no use for this, now."

Boromir automatically dragged Pippin back as Saruman flung his arm out, but what fluttered through the air to their pony was no weapon, and Pippin reached out and caught it in both hands.

Boromir's heart crumpled inside his chest.

Nelly's corset. From Galadriel.

Tears burnt at his eyes as he glared at Saruman, and once again, Pippin was quiet. He clutched at the dirty bodice, and ran his fingers over the lace, and then he looked at Gandalf.

And, with tears in his eyes, the wizard shook his head.

"No," Pippin whimpered, clutching the fabric tighter. "No, no, she – she – Nelly-"

"Boromir, take him away," said Gandalf heavily, sorrow sparkling in the tears in his eyes.

"No!" protested Pippin, fighting Boromir harder. The horse began to neigh uncomfortably beneath them as Boromir dropped the reins, using all that he had to restrain the hobbit. Pippin was strong, and fast, and his howls ripped right through Boromir's soul. "Let me go, let me go! I'll kill him, I'll kill him! Let me go!"

"Pippin, please," said Boromir urgently, dodging another blow to the face. "You cannot kill him now-"

But Pippin was not listening ."I'll rip his throat out, I'll cut his head off, I'll stab him in the gut until there's nothing left inside him-"

"Pippin!" sobbed Merry, and Boromir felt sobs rising in his own chest. It was wrong, so wrong, to hear such violent threats pouring from the mouth of a hobbit – not-even-full-grown hobbit – and it was so wrong that they were warranted.

"Do you hear it, Gandalf?" sang Saruman. "Do you hear what you have done?"

"-let me go! Let me go, let me go!" Pippin's voice cracked, and he began to sob. The strength bled out of his flailing limbs, and his chin fell against his chest. "Let me go. Let me go."

Boromir turned his horse, without granting Saruman as much as a look. Pippin did not fight him anymore. He was limp, so limp that, for a moment, Boromir thought he had fainted. But Pippin was awake, and aware and his haunted eyes were glazed like sea-glass. Boromir softened his grip from a restraint to an embrace, and steered them out of the dark waters of Isengard, to the forest outside. There he stopped, and dismounted, lowering Pippin slowly to the ground.

The hobbit stood a moment on his feet, swaying. Slowly, he raised his head to meet Boromir's eyes. The man opened his mouth, but he did not know what to say, and before he could conjure a single word, Pippin dropped his gaze – and then his knees – to the ground. With a heavy sigh, Boromir sat beside him, and put a hand on Pippin's knee. He did not know what else to do. He had no comforts to give, and he did not want Pippin to start screaming again. So he just sat, and swallowed his own tears, until they heard approaching hoofbeats.

Before Aragorn had even stopped his horse, Merry leapt down, landing deftly on his feet and running to Pippin's side. He did not say a word, but he crashed into his cousin and wrapped his arms around him, and then Pippin was clinging to Merry as though he was the only soul left in the world. Crumpled together on the ground, the hobbits were so tightly entwined that it was hard to tell who was who. Pippin buried his head in Merry's shoulder as he began to sob, and Merry's tears forced their way through his clenched eyelids. In a matter of moments, Gimli was at their sides, and he wrapped his arms around the pair of them.

And Pippin cried harder, and Boromir hung his head.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced up at Aragorn. The ranger had made no attempt to hide his own tears now that Saruman was out of sight, and he stood as though the weight of a hundred worlds was balancing on his shoulders. Opposite Aragorn stood Legolas, still paler than he ought to be, with his good hand clutching Gimli's shoulder. His eyes, too, were paler than usual, swimming with tears of his own, and Boromir hung his head once more.

The men of Rohan sat silently astride their horses, and for a long moment, Gandalf sat beside them. Then, he dismounted, and crouched before Pippin.

"Look at me, Peregrin Took," he said softly, waiting for Pippin to raise his head. "That's it, lad. Look at me."

"Is she dead?" Pippin demanded in a rasping whisper, and Boromir saw Merry's arms tighten around the younger hobbit. "Is it true, Gandalf? Is she dead?"

The wizard shook his head, tears still sparkling in the blue of his eyes. "I do not know. I think that it is safe to say that she and Bróin are no longer in Isengard – Saruman would be using them for leverage if they were. But _why_ they are no longer here is less certain. It is possible that they have both been delivered for ransom, though that would be a risky move for Saruman to play. It is also possible, but far less likely, that they escaped. I fear, Pippin, that the story Saruman told may, in fact, be the truth."

Merry gave a pained whine, and Gimli let out a groan, but Pippin kept staring at Gandalf. "You think she is dead?"

Gandalf opened his mouth, and then he paused. His eyes narrowed on Pippin, and then a small smile slipped onto his lips. "I think that beyond the fear, and the grief, and the pain, my heart says that there may yet be a chance for her. I will not give you false hope, my lad. It is very unlikely. But if Nelly and Bróin are no longer in the tower, Saruman has every reason to lie, and very few reasons to tell the truth."

"She's not dead," whispered Pippin. "She isn't. I'd – I'd know, if she was."

Gandalf smiled sadly, and Boromir looked away. No matter what the wizard said, hope seemed very far away. In his heart, he began to recite Gondor's prayers for the dead.

"Are – are we going after Bróin?" asked Merry hesitantly. His voice was thick and muffled, but there was a desperate strength in his eyes. "He'll need us."

Gandalf sighed heavily. "I do not know that it would be wise to try."

Gimli raised his head, his face flaming redder than his hair, but before he could speak, Gandalf raised his hand.

"For we do not know where he is," he said. "If Saruman tells the truth, he is already closer to Erebor than he is to here. If that is the case, his fate is in Thorin's hands, not ours. But if Saruman is lying, we have no way of knowing what direction to turn. We would be chasing nothing more than a rumour and a hope, and there are surer matters that need our attention."

"This isn't a 'matter'," growled Gimli, his arms curling protectively tighter around the hobbits. "This is Bróin. Our Bróin. And dead or alive, our Nelly is with him. I see no surer matter than that."

"Do you not?" There was no anger in Gandalf's voice. It was empty, save for a deep sorrow. "Saruman is right in one thing – the war is not over. We will learn nothing more from him, but learn we must. We are not safe, yet. For now, with the leave of Théoden, I will return to Rohan. There, we will plan our next move. I would have you all with me, in this. I feel you can do greater good there."

"Do you?" asked Pippin hollowly. "Or do you just want to keep an eye on us? Keep us from messing up your dear plans."

"Pip," said Merry, but Gandalf shook his head.

"Let it slide, Meriadoc," he said. "Folk say many a foolish thing, when they are struck by grief or fear."

"What's that?" asked Pippin, pointing to a bundle beneath Gandalf's arm – one that Boromir had not even noticed.

"No concern of yours."

Pippin let out a hollow laugh, and pushed his way out of the arms of Merry and Gimli. "It is a concern of mine, if it's anything to do with Saruman. Merry and me, we're the ones he captured, and that's my sister he's talking about! I deserve to know what's going on."

Gandalf nodded, his hand held out placatingly. "I know, Pippin, but at this stage-"

"Have you told Aragorn?" demanded Pippin. "Will you? Of course you will, because you trust him! You don't think he's a child, or a useless piece of baggage to drag after the fellowship and then get stolen by orcs! But why would you tell Merry and me anything? Why? It's not as though we left everything we've ever had to try and help our family, despite knowing that we'd likely die trying – oh, wait."

Boromir shifted uneasily as Gandalf's face hardened.

"You are acting like a child, Peregrin Took," warned the wizard, and Pippin let out another laugh, high and sharp and not at all like the hobbit. Merry stumbled backwards, kept on his feet only by the arms of an equally dumbstruck Gimli.

"I am not a child. You cannot see what I have seen and still be a child, Gandalf," he said, and Boromir's heart broke a little more. "No matter how old I am. I may be young, and I may be small, and I may not be smart as Merry or dangerous as Nelly, but I've risked the same as they did, and I have a right to know what's happening."

Gandalf closed his eyes, and Boromir winced, hoping that the wizard would not be too harsh in his anger, but when Gandalf looked back at Pippin, it was with the eyes of a broken man. "I do not distrust you, Peregrin Took," he said softly. "I simply want to keep you safe."

"You can't," said Pippin, his voice breaking. His arms wove around his stomach, but he stepped out of reach of Gimli's hand. "There is no such thing as safe."

Gandalf shook his head slightly, and put a hand on Pippin's arm. The hobbit flinched, but did not pull away. "The package is a tool of Saruman's, one that was thrown from the tower after your departure. I believe it was Gríma, and not Saruman himself who threw it, but I cannot be sure. It is very dangerous, and very powerful. We got no further information from Saruman, save a couple of meaningless taunts. The ents will guard him for now. Is that information sufficient for you?"

Pippin hesitated, and then gave a curt nod.

"Tell me," said Gandalf, his voice as gentle as down feathers. "You have never cared to know everything, Pippin. So what is it – what truly is it – that you want to know now?"

Fresh tears filled Pippin's eyes, and he swallowed. When he spoke, the anger had left his voice, and with it went the bitterness and hopelessness and insistence. It left the small, frightened voice of a child in its wake.

"I want to know where Nelly is," he whispered. "Gandalf, I want my sister."

Between his own tears and the speed of the wizard, Boromir barely saw the movement, but in the next second Gandalf held Pippin close in his arms, his eyes closed and his embrace strong. For the first time since he returned to them, Gandalf looked grey.

After an endless moment, he spoke. "I know you do, my lad. I know."

"Then can we _find_ her?" pleaded Pippin, pushing away from the wizard. "Denahi can track her and Bróin, we could find them-"

"I do not think that is wise," said Gandalf gently, holding Pippin's shoulders like an old man explaining death to his grandson. "As I told Gimli, we would not know where to start looking, and we cannot waste the men, Pippin. This is a war, and a war that will shape the very fabric of our world. In war, sacrifices must be made."

Pippin shook his head, grasping Gandalf's arms. "But – it's _Bróin._ And she's – she's my _sister._ Gandalf, they're family, please… _"_

"That," said Gandalf, a tear trailing down his crooked nose, "my dear lad, is what makes it a sacrifice."

 **So, I hope you enjoyed that chapter. In case you were wondering,** _baraj'urm_ **is the Khuzdul word for snake, according to the fabulous Dwarrow scholar. A little dramatic irony here – what do you think Pippin will say when he finds out what really happened? And what is the mysterious bundle that Gandalf's carrying? Why was there no wizard-on-wizard stand off? I'd love to hear your theories, so please review if you have the time and inclination.**


	74. Chapter 74: The Warg and the Whiner

**Hey :) I'm sorry that I missed last week. My life has been extremely hectic, and I have an awful lot going on right now, so I can't promise that this won't happen again, but I'll do my best to keep weekly updates going when I can. I appreciate your patience and continued support more than you could know. As ever, please forgive my typos, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Three: The Warg and the Whiner**

His mind tumbling through a thousand troubled thoughts, Frodo kept watch over his sleeping cousins. It had taken him and Sam a good while to cajole Nelly and Bróin into resting, but eventually they had rested their heads and closed their sunken eyes.

He wondered if they knew how exhausted they looked. How starved, how dangerously close to sickness and death. When Bróin shifted, Frodo could see scars, still red and angry, on his arms and neck and face. When Nelly's head tilted to the side, he could see hollow cheeks, and shadows cast by the protruding bones of her face.

It terrified him. All their lives, Nelly and Bróin had been the ones to bounce back from anything. They were the ones who seemed to retain the endless energy of children, the ones who feared nothing, the ones with minds sharper than arrow-tips. The ones with a well of confidence as deep as Khazad-dûm.

Now, they looked so fragile that they barely looked like themselves.

Of course, he was not surprised – after everything they had been through, after all that had been done to them, of course they were exhausted, and battered, and starving. It was not surprising, but that did not mean that it was not painful to see.

Frodo wished that they had more food, he wished it so hard that it hurt. He and Sam had rationed carefully, and through both that and sheer dumb luck, he was hopeful that they had enough to sustain all four of them into Mordor, but there would not be enough to reverse the damage that Saruman had done. There was not enough to put the shape back into Nelly's cheeks, or to stop her collar bones from sticking out so far. Bróin had not lost as much weight as she had, but Frodo was not sure if they would have enough food to chase away the young dwarf's grey pallor.

Now, dusk was bringing a softer shade of light, and Frodo knew that soon, he would have to wake them both. They could not linger all day and all night, and Sméagol preferred to move when it was dark. To Frodo's shame, he had quite forgotten about Gollum until after Nelly and Bróin fell asleep.

He was comforted slightly by the fact that Sméagol would never know that he had been forgotten. The last thing he needed was for Sméagol to start slipping backwards, to lose what trust he had in them. At first, Sam and Sméagol had seemed to loath each other, and bickered whenever they had the chance, but that had already begun to change.

"I hope that there might yet be a chance for him, Sam," Frodo had whispered, one night while Sméagol was hunting. "That he might get some redemption, do some good in the world. But I don't think we'll coax anything good out of him if we're harsh, or cruel."

Since then, Sam had been nothing less than kind to Sméagol, who over the last week had been making what seemed to be great progress, even going so far as to be civil with Sam.

Luckily, Nelly and Bróin would not rock the boat too much. Sméagol was due back any minute – it had been several hours since he left, and he was rarely gone for much longer than that.

Frodo glanced at Sam. His friend's face was in shadow, and its expression was dark. Bróin's head was resting in his lap, and Sam gazed down at the young dwarf, clenching his fingers.

"Are you alright?" Frodo asked softly.

Sam shook his head slightly. He did not look up. "If I'm perfectly honest, Frodo, no, I'm not alright at all."

Frodo hung his head, and his gaze fell upon Nelly. Her head was pillowed by his legs, and there was a look of peace on her face, but it gave no relief to Frodo. Not when there were so many bruises. Not when he had been told of so much horror. "No… me neither."

"I… I keep thinking that we should've turned back, that we could've helped," murmured Sam, tucking his cloak more tightly around Bróin's shoulders. "That we should've turned back, and tried to help…"

"Me too. But if we did, Saruman would have the ring by now," said Frodo heavily. "All would be lost, and it wouldn't have stopped any of this from happening."

"I know," said Sam, wiping angrily at his eyes. "I know we did what was right. But I… my mind keeps wandering without me asking it to. I keep imagining what they did to them, what that monster nearly did to Nelly…"

Frodo shuddered. "I'm not sure that they should come on with us," he admitted, his heart sticking in his throat. "I don't want to let them out of my sight, but I don't want to take them to Mordor, either. They've been through so much already."

"Aye," murmured Sam darkly. "More than we have, that's for certain. But would they leave?"

Frodo shrugged, and rested his hand on Nelly's shoulder. She did not stir. "I doubt it. It's worth asking, but I doubt it. But if they did go, we wouldn't… we wouldn't know if…"

Sam nodded, and Frodo stopped trying to finish the sentence. It was bad enough before, not knowing whether any of the fellowship had made it out alive, but to know of how much his friends had suffered, and how close they had come to death and greater torment would make not knowing insufferable. It would eat him alive.

But if they were caught – if Frodo had to _watch_ such things occur –

He closed his eyes, and shook his head slightly. With his hand on Nelly's shoulder, he could feel her breathing, feel her chest rising and falling, and if he lied to himself strongly enough, he could nearly believe that it was enough that Nelly and Bróin were simply alive. Nearly.

A vicious howl split the air in two, stopping Frodo's thoughts in their tracks, and he leapt to his feet as a strangled scream and a barrage of fierce, furious barks broke through the echoes.

"Sméagol!" he cried, feeling the blood drain from his face as Nelly and Bróin jolted awake.

"Toothy," Bróin breathed, scrambling to his feet and rushing to the mouth of the cave, despite Nelly and Sam's protestations. Frodo followed, his grip tight around the hilt of his sword, and they scrambled up in time to see a great rock hurtle down from the sky, smashing into the face of the warg. The creature let out a howl of pain, and Bróin roared.

"Hey!" he yelled, stooping to grab a stone of his own and lobbing it before Frodo could stop him. "Leave him alone!"

"Wait-"

"Master!" screeched Sméagol, dodging Bróin's rock and shooting higher up a nearby tree. "Master, help us, help us!"

"Bróin, call off the warg!" Frodo cried, but when Bróin stepped forward the warg turned and snapped, growling at him. Frodo seized Bróin's arm and the warg twisted around, snarling at Frodo with eyes lit with fury.

"Stop, Toothy, stop!" ordered Bróin, his hands shaking as he held them up. "It's alright, it's alright, I'm here. You can stop now, you can stop now. Good boy, shh, good boy."

"Mahal…" breathed Nelly, and Frodo tightened his grip on his sword as Toothy leant closer to Bróin.

Then, the warg licked the young dwarf on the chin, and Frodo could breathe again.

"There we go," murmured Bróin, scratching behind the warg's ear. "Good boy. Good boy."

"Master!" wailed Sméagol once more, and Toothy looked up with a growl, flattening his ears to the side of his head.

"It's alright!" Frodo called, holding out his hand. "It's alright, Sméagol, these are our friends. You can come down, he won't hurt you."

"What's a Sméagol?" Nelly asked Sam in a whisper, but Frodo did not turn to her. Instead, he held out his hand, and watched as Sméagol slowly, slowly, slid down the tree.

"Dwarveses," he muttered, in a dark tone that Frodo was not too happy to hear. "Dwarveses and hobbitses and wargses, not nice, not nice precious."

"Sméagol," he said firmly. "This is Bróin, and Nelly. They are our friends, and they are here to help us. This is… Toothy. Their warg. He will not hurt you either, but you mustn't hurt him."

"Wargs are cruel," hissed Sméagol, still clinging distrustfully to the tree. "Tricksy, false! They scratch and bite, and _bite_ , Master."

Frodo took a deep breath, and then took a step closer. "This one will not bite you. Now come down, and say hello. Nelly, Bróin, this is Sméagol. He has been helping to guide us. You have heard of him as Gollum."

"You are trusting Gollum?" cried Nelly, and as Sméagol drew himself up, Sam snorted.

"Now I thought much the same thing too, but he's proved mighty useful so far, and we haven't been taming no wargs, Nelly. I think we're much saner than you are," he said. Frodo shot him a grateful smile.

"Sméagol leads nice hobbitses to dark places, and helps kind Master," said Sméagol, glaring at Nelly. He slunk down from the tree, and when Toothy did not move, he crept forward, clinging to Frodo's hand with clammy fingers. "Sméagol helps good Master. He does nothing to hurt Master, no he doesn't. But he _does_ hurt bad things – things that slink and spy in the dark. Things that will hurt Master – things that are tricksy, and false-"

"Yes alright, that's enough of that, thank you Sméagol," said Frodo sharply, not at all liking the hatred with which Sméagol looked at Nelly. "I appreciate all you have done for us – I have said it before and will say it again. But Nelly and Bróin will not hurt us. They are not tricksy, or false. I expect you all to get along, now. We are all on one side, and you will act like it."

For a moment, Nelly looked like she was going to argue, but then her shoulders slumped, and she shook her head a little. She was still standing, half-hidden, behind Sam. "Of course, Frodo. Sorry."

He tried to smile. "It's alright. I think we all just gave each other a bit of a shock. Now, did you find yourself any food, Sméagol?"

Sméagol's scowl deepened, and he curled his shoulders, looking remarkably like a dog raising its hackles. "Sméagol did find food. Good Sméagol found ratses, yes, ratses, but then we returns to find the warg, and we thinks that the warg has eaten nice Master, and we drops our crunchable ratses in surprise, and the warg eats all Sméagol's dinner, yes, all of it, every bit!"

"Oh," said Bróin, looking a little sheepish. "Sorry about that. Here, do you like jerky?"

Sméagol stared suspiciously at him, "What's jerky?"

"Just dried meat," said Bróin, digging in one of the wolf's saddle bags. "Here."

He tossed Sméagol a piece, and Toothy whined indignantly. Bróin slipped the warg a little jerky of his own, and Sméagol sniffed at his own portion. He nibbled the end and Frodo waited, wondering if Sméagol was about to start wailing about being poisoned again, but the dried meat was clearly close enough to his usual diet, and in a few moments it was gone entirely.

"Nice dwarf," he said. Then, he looked at Frodo, and his face split into a wide smile. "Let's go, Master. You and the fat hobbit and good Sméagol must be going. Bye-bye warg, nice dwarf, rude hobbit!"

"They are coming with us, Sméagol," said Frodo firmly, glancing up at the pair. "I doubt we can persuade them to try and find safety instead."

Nelly and Bróin exchanged a glance, and then both shook their heads.

"Not getting rid of us that easily," said Bróin.

"We're with you till the end, Frodo," added Nelly.

Sméagol scowled. "The warg cannot come. There is stairs in the road, Master, lots and lots of stairs and the warg is too big."

Frodo needed only to glance at Bróin's face to know that leaving Toothy behind was not an option, though he was not much more comfortable than Sméagol was. "Well, we'll climb those stairs when we come to them. For now, he comes with us."

With a look of utter disgust, Sméagol stalked to the front of the group. "As Master says."

Frodo did not miss the resentment in Sméagol's voice, and he stifled the urge to groan. "Come," he said. "Will you lead us on? We should get out of here, in case anyone heard that racket."

With another dark scowl, Sméagol sprang forward, and Frodo could all but see the anger radiating from him. Unfortunately, Sméagol's mood did not improve over the next few days. He scowled when Nelly questioned his plan, and skulked around the corners of the camp whenever they stopped. Though Bróin fed him and Frodo praised him, he still sulked more often than he spoke, and slunk through the shadows like a grumpy ghost.

His greatest grudge seemed to be against the warg. For that, Frodo could not really blame him. Even after a week, it still made him a little uncomfortable to be so close to Toothy, especially as Bróin preferred to ride to ensure that he remained in control. Sméagol hated the warg, and let it be known loudly. Toothy seemed equally appalled by Sméagol, and growled if he came too close – or if he approached Nelly or Bróin, for that matter. Before, Frodo had felt like a father with bickering sons with how Sam and Sméagol were acting. Now he felt like Bilbo trying to hold everyone's manners together at a family gathering.

As the days trundled by, the tension around them rose, and Frodo began to feel stifled, almost strangled, by the distrust and unease in the group. Every time he closed his eyes, whispers raced through his mind. They were fools for trusting a warg – soon it would slaughter them, butcher them, devour them while they slept. It would get them caught, by friend or foe, it would make too much noise, it was chasing away anything they had any hope to hunt.

And Sméagol was growing darker. Trust seemed wrong here, too, with Sméagol skulking through shadows and glaring at them, and using the colder, crueller voice that Frodo associated with Gollum far more often than he used the lighter 'Sméagol' voice. If he slipped away from them, if they lost his trust and he turned on them, they could lose everything.

If Frodo could chase those worries away, other fears swept down to take their place. Nelly was still so skinny, and as he had feared they did not have nearly enough food to do anything about it. After a day of stubbornly swaying on her feet, Frodo had pulled rank and ordered her to ride with Bróin on the warg, but there was little else he could do. The dark circles beneath Bróin's eyes were not lightening, and the tremor had yet to leave his fingers, and Frodo did not know how to fix that either.

Sam was ever at his side, a constant, a source of hope and strength, but he was beginning to bicker with Sméagol again, snapping out warnings if ever their slinking companion was heard muttering about Nelly or Bróin.

But worst of all, worse than all those thoughts, were the whispers that were not his own. The ring had been getting stronger, and its voice louder, with every step closer to Mordor. It was a constant, droning buzz beneath any conversation, and in the silence it was relentless, crooning to him without taking a breath.

 _"Put me on, and become a king. Leave them, and watch the world wonders of the world dance before your eyes, in reach of your hands. Take me home, and reap rewards greater than your wildest dreams. Anything and everything that you have ever desired shall be yours."_

Or, apparently bored of futile bribery, the Ring would change its track.

 _"They will leave you. I see their hearts, see through their lies. They will all leave you, they are cowards and traitors, and they will lead you only to death. Each one of them is watching, watching you, and waiting. Waiting to rob you, to steal from you – to steal me. They will try to take me. They will all try."_

Other times, it would proclaim a desire to save them, whisper promises of his family left safe and sound, or it would threaten them, and fill his mind with sickening images of torture and death. He knew that such sights were the work of the ring and not of his own nightmares – he could _feel_ them. He could hear their screams, and smell the stench of the dungeons, and taste blood in the air.

It was no longer enough to simply clutch the shield pendant around his neck. If he squeezed it until his hands bled, it would only buy him a moment's relief. If he gritted his teeth and told the ring how much he loathed it, its voice grew stronger.

The only thing that helped at all was thinking of happier things. Times when his family was together and whole, the great balls that Dís threw, and the smaller, more intimate dinner parties that Bilbo organised. Memories of sleeping safely in dwarven arms could dull the Ring's voice, and listing the people he loved, and how deeply he loved them, could silence it entirely.

If he concentrated.

It was a double-edged sword, after all. If he was not careful, he would begin to fear, and to grieve, and as soon as fear and grief seeped in, the Ring would latch upon them like a leech. He would see scenes from his nightmares, worse than ever before, and the Ring would list off the names of the 'dead', or claim to be the only thing that could save him.

Then, all Frodo could do was look desperately at Sam, and Bróin, and Nelly – look at what he did have, and who had made it this far. It was in those moments that an old, dwarven phrase became his mantra,

 _Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi._

The sun is still shining. The moon still glows.

It was not quite as effective as dwelling on the names of his family, but it was less dangerous, and it dulled the voice of the ring, and that was all Frodo dared ask for.

A full week after Nelly and Bróin joined them, they ran into a stroke of luck. Or rather, Sméagol did. He disappeared as usual when they set up camp, but as Frodo quietly nursed a headache and Sam began counting and re-counting the lembas, Sméagol returned with a triumphant cackle.

"Look!" he cried, "Master, Master, look! See what Sméagol finds! Good Sméagol, yes, good Sméagol!"

In his hands were two large, dead hares, and Frodo's heart rose. "That's wonderful. Thank you, Sméagol!"

"It is nice, it is scrumptious, eat it, eat it!" and with that Sméagol bit straight into the belly of one of the rabbits.

"Hey, now!" said Sam warningly, earning him a glare from Gollum. "That's not how we go about eating rabbit – you'll make someone sick, you will."

"How else are hobbitses eating, if they isn't using their mouths?" demanded Sméagol, but Sam just shook his head.

"Now, don't be like that, Sméagol," he said mildly, almost as though he was talking to a child. "We cook them."

"Cooks them?" shrieked Sméagol, leaping back with a look of abject horror, clutching the rabbits to his bare, scrawny chest. "You ruins, you ruinses nice rabbitses!"

"Hey, hey," mumbled Bróin wearily. "Look, fair's fair. Sméagol, you caught them, so you can eat yours however you want. We won't ruin your rabbits. But we can't eat them raw, like you can't eat elf-bread, so we have to cook them. That sound fair?"

Sméagol glared suspiciously at Bróin, and then he smiled, tossing the larger of the two rabbits at the dwarf. "Fair's fair, nice dwarf, yes, fair's fair."

"Thank you!" said Bróin, sounding a little surprised. "You don't think you could give a leg to Toothy, could y-"

"No!" cried Sméagol indignantly, his scowl returning at once. "No, nasty warg won't be eating Sméagol's nice rabbit, Sméagol caught it, we did, fair's fair-"

"Oh, shut _up_ ," Nelly groaned, her head in her hands, and Sam opened his mouth to chip in, and Toothy began a low, quiet whine, and Frodo sighed.

"That is enough," he said firmly. "Sméagol, you don't have to share."

At once, Sméagol darted away, hiding in a small bush and ripping into his rabbit. Toothy put his head on his paws and whined sadly.

"I'm with you," grumbled Nelly, leaning over and scratching the warg's ears. "It's not fair, him getting a whole rabbit, when we have to share by five."

"We'll make it stretch," insisted Frodo, staring at Bróin and Sam. "You're the best cooks in the family, after Bilbo and Bombur. If anyone can…"

"Aye," Sam sighed, getting to his feet. "Best I go look for some roots or herbs, if we're to be making a stew. Boromir said a lot of food grows 'round here. That'll be the way to do it, depending on what we can find. Nelly, if you start the fire, Bróin, would you fill up the cooking pot, get the water heated?"

"And I'll sit here like a doll, shall I?" said Frodo.

"No, no, look after our damsel in distress," said Sam, winking at Nelly. "Make sure she doesn't burn Ithilien to the ground."

"Rude," tutted Nelly. "Just rude. You'll be on first watch, Frodo."

"Sounds fair," said Frodo, settling himself down.

In only a few minutes, Bróin returned with the water, and Frodo drank greedily as Nelly helped set up the pot to hang above the fire. It would be some time before it boiled, but at least it was something. A promise of a good meal. It seemed such an impossible thing to hope for, and though Bilbo had often told him that a watched pot never boils, Frodo could not take his eyes away from the water. It was remarkably clean and still, and after a short while, Sam returned, and added some fresh herbs that he had collected.

"I also found some wild parsnips, a couple o' mushrooms and some of these – olives, I think Boromir called them," he said, sitting down with Bróin to prepare the rabbit.

Nelly wrinkled her nose. "Are you sure? They could be something else. Something poisonous."

"I don't think so," said Sam. "Boromir'd mentioned it to me, that we might be lucky enough to pass through Ithilien in olive season. Showed me a picture, he did. He claims they're better than mushrooms, though that I can't agree with."

He held out his hands, offering them to the others, and Frodo found that the strange, oily taste was quite nice – though unlike anything else he had ever tried. Bróin agreed, but Nelly's eyes bulged and her face screwed up. The boys laughed as she winced, and shook her head fiercely.

"Yuck!" she coughed, reaching for the water once more. "By Durin, that's disgusting!"

"Well, there's not much else to pad out the stew, so it's going in, I'm afraid," said Sam.

Nelly moaned. "Fair enough. Just cut it up small enough that I can't see it?"

"You're such a baby, Nell," teased Bróin, and she stuck her tongue out, and Sam laughed, and Frodo felt, for a moment, that the world was at peace.

 _"They will turn on each other, and turn on you. You will all be slaughtered by your own greed and pride, butchered by your insolence-"_

Frodo grimaced, and felt until his shirt for his shield. He took a deep breath, and thought of Thorin, laughing as he tossed Frodo into the warm swimming spring, or murmuring soft stories as he carried Frodo home on his shoulders.

 _"Thorin listened to the voices in his head, and look where it got him. He nearly killed Bilbo, and he would have, he would have put his hands around Bilbo's neck and crushed his windpipe."_

"Are you alright, Frodo?"

He started, glancing up at Sam's earnest eyes. "What?"

"You were growling," said Nelly, glancing worriedly at Bróin.

"I'm fine." Frodo drew a weary smile onto his face. "Truly. The Ring is… incessant. But I'm alright."

Nelly stood up and walked closer, sitting down beside him. She reached towards his neck and took the two chains beneath her fingers, and rage and fear rose hot up Frodo's chest. He clenched his teeth, knowing that it was the Ring, that he was not afraid of Nelly, that she would steal nothing, but it took all he had not to scream at her. His heart beat faster and he clenched his hands into fists to stop his fingers from reaching for her neck, as Nelly pulled the Ring out from beneath his shirt.

 _Kill her!_ Screamed the Ring, fear and glee in its voice, and Frodo kept very still.

Nelly took the Ring in two fingers and drew it close to her lips, and the chain was the only thing keeping it from being hers, hers forever, and Frodo's fury roared and his body rose and he saw it in his mind, his fingers closing around her neck and –

"Bugger off," she growled, and Frodo blinked. "No one gives a rats' arse what you've got to say, you shiny lump of orc dung! I mean it. Bugger off."

With that, she tucked the chains back beneath Frodo's shirts and leant back, smiling innocently at him.

"Feel better?"

Frodo laughed weakly. It was all that he could do. He was still trembling, and the image of his own hands strangling Nelly was seared into his brain.

That said, the Ring was quieter now.

"Now, if only words could kill outright," said Sam. "You'd have us out of here in less than a minute, Nelly. Though you'd be next for the chop, if your mother heard such words out of your mouth."

Nelly and Bróin laughed, and Frodo found himself joining in. He wrapped his arm around his cousin, and she snuggled closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

His heart was still going very, very fast. It still pumped anger through his veins, and a part of him wanted to snap at her, to tell her to never touch the ring again, to tell her that she was a fool and a thief and a liar –

But he would not. With every muscle in his body, and every fraction of his soul, he held his anger back, and it took such an effort that his hands shook, and his feet went very cold. It was the Ring. It was not him. It could not be him. It was the Ring. It was not him.

If it was him, if he was falling like Thorin –

It was not him.

If he fell, he could hurt his friends, he might kill them –

It was the Ring. It was not him.

He held Nelly closely, gently, and let his cheek rest on her hair. He would not hurt her. But still…

"Don't do that again," he murmured, as evenly and gently as his voice would allow. "Please. It… Makes things very difficult."

She sat up and frowned at him. "Yelling at the ring?"

He laughed again, weakly again, and shook his head. "No, that was wonderful. But don't touch it. Please. It's… Uncomfortable."

Her frown deepened and she tilted her head to the side. "Uncomfortable? How?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," said Nelly sombrely. "We are better to help you, Frodo. How can we do that if you don't tell us what's wrong? Dís says that it helps to talk things through."

"I don't want to talk about it," Frodo warned, but Nelly just smiled sadly.

"That's why it's important."

He felt anger rise in his chest again, felt it twist and seize in his gut, and he ground his teeth together. "It's none of your business! How would you know what helps me?"

Sam winced, and Bróin's eyes widened, but Nelly just gave a little shrug. There were tears dancing on her eyelashes, but that did not fall.

"Because I know you. Better than that _thing_ does. You've been like a brother since we were bairns."

The Ring stoked his fury, flaming it higher, but Nelly did not move, or flinch. She just stared at him with sorrow in her eyes, and he faltered. Looked away.

"Do not touch the ring again," he said. "It makes me want to hurt you."

A log cracked on the fire, snapping, fracturing, and Frodo felt the silence bristle around him. He stared at his hands, and waited for Nelly to pull away.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I'm sorry this is hard for you, and I won't do it again. Not if it didn't help."

Frodo sighed heavily. "It didn't. Not touching it, at least. The yelling worked."

"Good." Nelly paused. "It… it isn't you, Frodo. Whatever it is making your feel, whatever it's trying to make you think – it's not you."

"I know," he said gruffly. "I know."

After a moment, Nelly rested her head on his shoulder again. "This help?"

A small smile tugged onto Frodo's cheeks, and he nodded, wrapping his arm around her once more. "Yes. This helps."

"Told you," she said, sighing and snuggling closer. "Cuddles are like tea for Bagginses. Simple remedy to anything."

Thinking of Fíli and Kíli and Bilbo, Frodo smiled, and cuddled her closer. "True. That is very true."

Slowly, the water boiled, and Sam dropped in the diced meat. What little was left on the bones was tossed to Toothy, who devoured it in a single bite. As the smell of cooking meat slowly rose into the air, Sméagol slipped out from beneath his bush, prowling carefully up to Frodo.

"We should be going, Master," he said. "Must get to the stairses, no time to lose!"

"We have time to cook," protested Bróin. "There's no deadline, 'part from sooner, rather than later, and we'll walk further and faster on a good meal."

"Is there any danger, Sméagol?" asked Frodo, studying the creature's bulbous eyes carefully. "Here, and now, I mean?"

After a long moment, Sméagol scowled. "No…"

"Then why don't you get some rest?" suggested Frodo, as kindly as he could. "Some sleep might do you good."

Still scowling, Sméagol slunk back to the bushes. An hour or so later, the rabbit was finally done, and Nelly's stomach growled so fiercely that Frodo could feel the vibrations as Sam dished up bowls of thin broth. It tasted better than anything Frodo had eaten since leaving the fellowship, and the fact that it was warm made it ten times better. They each had seconds, and thirds, and Bróin offered a bowl to Toothy, who ate almost as greedily as the hobbits. Whether it was the warmth of the food or the nutrition already at work, Nelly and Bróin both looked brighter. Their cheeks, though drawn, were rosy, and their eyes sparkled.

At last, Frodo sat back, his hand resting on his stomach. "I don't think I can move," he said.

"I'll wash up," Nelly offered. "Didn't do much to help with cooking."

She took the pots and bowls and disappeared towards the stream, but less than two minutes later she returned without them. Though it had only just returned, the colour in her cheeks had gone, and there was fear in her eyes.

"Where're my pots?" cried Sam, "If you've ruined them, Pimpernel Took-"

"Shh!" she hissed, pressing a finger to her lips. "Come quickly, and quietly!"

"What is it?" asked Frodo, standing up, but she shook her head and turned back towards the stream. Leaving their belongings behind, the followed, though Frodo and Sam grabbed their swords. Toothy whined, straining against the rope to follow them, but Nelly shook her head and Bróin raced back, putting a hand on the warg's rump.

"We'll be back in a moment," he promised, staring into the warg's eyes. "Wait here, good boy. We'll be back in a moment."

To Frodo's surprise, Toothy sat down, and though he whined softly, he made no move to follow them. Sméagol did, though, slinking past the warg with a vicious glare and hurrying to Frodo's side.

Nelly led them to the stream, and then hopped straight over it, into the brush behind. They followed, though Frodo saw Sam cast a longing look at his pots, resting on the bank. And then he began to hear it – the sounds of people moving. A lot of people moving. Marching feet, and shouted orders. He swallowed.

The bushes thinned, and Nelly dropped down to crawl to the edge of a cliff. The others followed, and peered down into the valley. The sight stole Frodo's breath.

It was an army.

Hundreds of soldiers, menfolk, by the look of them, were marching west, adorned in strange armour, the likes of which Frodo had never seen before.

"Who are they?" he breathed, and beside him, Sméagol hissed.

"Dark men, bad men. They are going to Mordor, to serve _him."_

"I think they're Easterlings," Nelly added in a murmur. "Nori said that he met some at a bar once, and they had distinctive armour, and hair dark as coal."

"Well," said Bróin, "that sounds about right. We should go. Now."

Frodo nodded, but then Sam gasped.

"Wait!"

Frodo looked back, his gaze following Sam's pointed arm, and then he gasped. There was something coming around the corner of the valley, something the size of a mountain. It looked too big to move, too big to breathe, but it did move and it did breathe, and it bore twenty men on its back.

"I don't believe it," Bróin breathed, as Nelly let out a quiet gasp of a laugh. Frodo rubbed his eyes, and looked again.

"It's an oliphaunt," said Sam, a little unnecessarily. There was nothing else it could possibly be.

"Pippin's not going to believe this," laughed Nelly breathlessly, and Frodo smiled, pleased to hear her speak of her brother in the present tense again.

But then a horn rang through the air, one whose note sounded oddly familiar, and cloud of arrows hailed down on the Easterlings. They began to shout, and arrows flew indiscriminately towards the cliffs.

"Move!" Frodo ordered, but there was no need. Sam and Bróin had already rolled back, Sméagol had vanished into the trees nearby and Nelly was halfway back to the bushes –

And she ran straight into the towering form of a man.

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and once again, I'm sorry how long it took! Do let me know what you think/fear/hope, and leave any feedback that you fancy, I would really appreciate it. I'll update when I can, but in the meantime, thank you for reading, and take care!**


	75. Chapter 75:Of Old Friends and Great Foes

**Hey there! Sorry for the delay in this one – as I have said, I am super, crazy busy right now. I hope that you enjoy this very long chapter to make up for it, and I will update again as soon as I possibly can, though I make no promises as to when that will be.**

 **As ever, please do forgive any mistakes in this chapter.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Five: Of Old Friends and Great Foes**

Frodo, Sam and Bróin were on their feet in a heartbeat, but in that time more men had burst from the trees, hooded and masked, and the one before Nelly had his arm wrapped around her chest.

"Let me go!" she yelled, her voice taut with fear and anger. "Let me go, get off me! Get off me!"

Bróin charged forward, his fists his only weapons, but another two men tackled him to the ground even as Frodo and Sam drew their swords. A swell of six men surrounded them, but when Frodo growled and raised his blade, they halted, aiming spears and swords towards the two hobbits.

With a vicious growl of her own, Nelly threw her head back, smashing it into the man's chest, and she kicked at his shins with such force that he cried out. Behind her, Bróin fought furiously against the men that pinned him to the dirt.

"Get off them!" yelled Sam, brandishing his sword towards the men, whose own blades moved closer to Frodo and Sam. "Leave them alone, we've done nothing wrong!"

His heart beating faster than a hummingbird's wings, Frodo glanced over the enemy. There were at least two dozen of them, and they were all armed to the teeth. Though the dwarven side of him was urging to fight, he knew that he and Sam stood no chance if the men had even an inkling of how to use their weapons. His mind raced, and the ring began to whisper to him.

 _Put me on… escape… kill them all…_

The man holding Nelly swore loudly and doubled over, and her feet scrambled against the ground, but another figure swept forward and seized her legs. The first man tightened his grip around her chest as the second hoisted her legs into the air, pulling back to stop her from kicking.

And then Nelly screamed.

It was like nothing that Frodo had heard before, nothing like any noise that he could have imagined Nelly would make. It was not a growl of rage, nor a battle cry, nor even a shriek of shock or exclamation of pain. It was pure terror, raw and wrenching, and it rang out for an endless moment, and then dissolved into desperate sobs. She thrashed frantically in the men's arms, suspended in mid-air with the ragged tunic riding further up her chest, but they held her firm.

"Let her go!" howled Bróin from the ground. "Let her go, let her go, let her go!"

The screams stabbed Frodo in the heart, and as he realised what Nelly and Bróin were reliving, anger burnt like bile in his stomach and throat. He sprang towards the nearest man and disarmed him in a second, hooking his foe's legs out from beneath him before the man could so much as blink. Dropping his knee onto the man's chest, Frodo pressed his sword tightly against the man's throat.

"Let them go," he growled, and a hush fell. "Now."

Only Nelly's breathless crying broke the silence, and it frightened him. There was a wild, animal fear in her eyes, and it was so wrong. So wrong for Nelly to look so afraid.

"Lower your weapon, and we might talk," said one of the men, stepping forward from the others. He also wore a mask of cloth across his nose and mouth, but there was something unnervingly familiar about his grey eyes. Frodo pressed his sword closer towards the throat of the stranger on the ground.

"Tell your _brute_ to take his hands off my cousin, and I will consider lowering my blade," he snarled, his eyes flashing to the one who held Nelly. Her entire stomach was now bare, the fabric of her tunic bunched up beneath the man's arms, which were still rising upwards. And there was a knife pressed against her neck. "Put her feet on the ground, and take your knife from her neck and your arms _away_ from her chest."

The man who had spoken followed Frodo's gaze, and his eyes widened. "Rion!"

"She kicked me," muttered Rion. "Right where it hurts. Couldn't hold her on my own."

"Well she's not kicking now," said the first speaker, clearly the group's leader. "Let her adjust herself."

Rion nodded, and Nelly's legs were released. As soon as they hit the floor, Frodo saw her toes curl up, and Rion took his arm off of her chest, though he kept one hand on the back of her neck, and the knife to her throat. In a flash, she had pulled her tunic back down, and her hands flew up, wrapping around Rion's arm as if that might stop the knife from biting her throat.

"Now," said the leader, turning back to Frodo. "Lower your sword."

Frodo gave a wild laugh. "You think I will lower my sword while you have knives at the throats of my friends? You lower your blades first!"

"And how do I know that you will not slay Húlon the moment that your friends are released?" said the man. "This is no longer a place of peace, nor is it a place were good folk tend to roam."

Frodo ground his teeth together, and he looked at Nelly. All the colour that the food had leant her was gone. She was white as marble, and her eyes were unfocused, and she was breathing quickly. Too quickly, too shallowly – Frodo had seen this before. Bilbo called them panic attacks.

"Then why are you roaming here?" he said at last, glaring at the man. "Attacking innocent people on the road?"

"Ithilien is our land, and we defend it," said the leader, calmly, almost gently. "Now, lower your blade. There is nowhere to run, and you cannot fight us all."

"Lower _your_ blades first."

The men in the clearing began to hiss and grumble, but the eyes of the man who spoke were thoughtful, and almost kind. "On the count of three?" Frodo nodded stiffly. "One, two, three."

On three, at a nod from the speaking man, Rion lowered his knife, though he kept a grip on the back of Nelly's neck. Frodo sheathed his sword, but put his foot on Húlon's chest for good measure. When the leader raised his eyebrows, Frodo just raised his own back.

The leader stared at him for a long moment, and then he spoke again. "Who are you, and what is your business here? No one travels here these days, save spies, or warriors."

Sam muttered something under his breath, and Frodo thought about how to answer. Fíli said that a name and title could act as a threat, but could also be used as a weapon against you. He studied the man before him, and then his eyes fell on a horn attached to one of their belts.

"Are you men of Gondor?" he asked.

"Of Minas Tirith," said the man.

"Then I will give you my name. I am Frodo Baggins, heir of Bilbo, nephew of King Thorin of Erebor. This is Samwise Gamgee, Pimpernel Took and Bróin, son of Lord Bombur. We are on a mission sanctioned by Gandalf the Grey. You would be wise to let us go," he said, and the man's eyes widened.

"Frodo…" he murmured. "I thought so."

Frodo blinked, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bróin and Sam exchange glances. "And why is that?" he said.

"We have met before," murmured the man. "A long time ago. A lifetime, it feels." And he pulled off his mask to reveal a face that stirred a memory, and a resemblance to Boromir that made his next words irrefutable. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

"Bless me, you are!" cried Sam, his eyes widening. "You've grown up, haven't you? Now, you know us, Mister Faramir, sir, so you tell that Rion to put his knife down, and get those big lumps off of Bróin."

"I knew you," said Faramir softly. "But that was many years ago, and much can change." But he nodded at Rion. "Let them go, and step off the dwarf. I take it you will not flee?"

They shook their heads, and Nelly was released. Like a shot, Bróin darted forward, dragging her away from Rion and wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders. They scrambled towards Frodo and stood behind him, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

"What 'mission' brings you here?" asked Faramir.

"One that your brother was part of," replied Frodo, and to his surprise, Faramir stiffened. "He joined us from Rivendell, though we were parted at Rauros."

"Parted?" said Faramir. His voice was soft, and his men bristled around him. A sense of dread began to creep up Frodo's spine, and he studied Faramir's face warily as he nodded.

"We were set upon by uruk-hai," he explained. "And our party split to save itself."

Faramir turned away, and rubbed his jaw. "Then you do not know?"

"Do not know what?" asked Frodo, the rising within him.

And even as Faramir said it, he remembered.

 _And then he was in a forest, and watching arrow after arrow shoot into Boromir's chest._

His nightmare had not haunted him for days, being overtaken by more present horrors, but that _had_ been the forest where he saw Boromir get shot –

And he had not seen Boromir since –

And Faramir said, "That my brother is dead."

Frodo's grief punched him in the gut as the others gasped and flinched behind him. "What? When – how?"

"Three days ago, the news came from Rohan. He was cut down by beasts of Saruman. Yesterday, I found this in the Anduin." He reached to his belt, and pulled out a familiar horn, cloven in two.

"No," said Bróin, shaking his head, and staggering backwards. Grief and fear were etched into his face, and as Nelly's arms wove around his, Bróin began to shake his head all the faster. "No, that's – he can't be! It isn't – he was – no, _no…"_

"I am very sorry to hear that, if it is true," said Frodo, allowing his grief to spill into his voice, and his gaze to drop to the ground. "He was… he was a dear friend."

A howl screeched through the air and Frodo's heart dropped through to his toes as the colour drained from Bróin's face.

"Uh oh," Sam muttered, and then there came the shouts of men, and a shrieking yelp of pain, and Bróin cried out.

"Toothy!"

The ground seemed to shake beneath them as a great roar rendered the air, and the men of Gondor turned, pointing their weapons towards the stream.

Nelly gave a strangled cry of her own. "No, wait-"

With a growl as deep as Khazad-dûm, the warg burst through the bushes towards them, and to Frodo's horror, he held one of Faramir's men in his mouth.

"Kakhuf inbarathrag," he whispered, as chaos exploded around him. The men of Gondor roared in rage, and aimed their weapons at the warg and the hobbits, and Toothy reared up onto his hind legs for a moment, before tightening his grip on the man in his mouth.

"Stop, stop!" Bróin cried, running forward. "Don't hurt him, don't hurt him?"

"Don't hurt him?" cried Rion incredulously, and then he barked out another order. Hands grabbed Frodo from behind, and a knife was pressed to his throat, but before he could even glare, Nelly and Sam and Bróin received the same treatment. "Take it down!"

"No!" howled Bróin. "No, don't, he's not dangerous – Toothy, drop him!"

Toothy growled, his hackles rising higher, and the men advanced, swords and spears at the ready. Faramir hesitated between them, his gaze darting from Bróin to the warg, and Frodo fought against closing his own eyes. He knew that he had to watch, had to be alert, but if he had to watch Bróin witness his warg killed… He was not sure he could stand seeing any further grief on his young cousin's face.

"Drop him," Bróin ordered, his voice wavering. "Toothy, drop the man, now, _please_ -"

Toothy growled stood his ground, staring at the man holding Bróin. Then, the warg ducked his head.

"Please," begged Bróin, tears pouring down his cheeks. "Just put him down, don't make them hurt you, Toothy, put him down, _please_."

Toothy drew back his lips to show his teeth against the man's neck, and Frodo realised for the first time that there was no blood. The warg thrust his head towards the man holding Bróin, and then ducked his muzzle once more.

"Let the dwarf go," ordered Faramir, and when the protests began, he held out his hand. "I want to see something. Hold your aim, but put Master Bróin down."

His hand around the arm that held a knife to his own throat, Frodo watched as Bróin was released. The moment that the knife left Bróin's neck, Toothy spat the man in his mouth down onto the ground.

"The beast was… bargaining?" breathed Rion. "Impossible…"

"Tell the beast to back down," said Faramir, staring pointedly at Bróin. "Or we will end its life."

"Down, Toothy!" pleaded Bróin, almost before Faramir had finished talking. "It's alright, down now, good boy. Down."

Toothy growled, and stared at Nelly, but almost at once the man holding her removed his knife from her neck, and his hand from her shoulder, and then Toothy collapsed to the ground with a whine.

And silence struck them like an avalanche.

Finally, Sam cleared his throat. "Now, I know this looks bad," he said. "Being all tied up with a warg, and all. But there's more to it than that, and it's a story we'll tell you, if you'd kindly stop trying to slit our throats."

Faramir stared at Sam for a long moment, and then he stared at Frodo. Then, he nodded. "Release them."

"My lord?"

"Release them," repeated Faramir, and one of the other men growled.

"Release them? They could not more clearly be working for the enemy? They travel in secret in these lands, with a slinking companion who vanishes like shadow in the night, and a warg under their command – what proof have we that it was not they who slew Boromir?"

At once, Nelly and Bróin yelled furious protestations, and Toothy began to growl, but Frodo cut over them all.

" _Stop_!" he roared, his voice ripping free from his chest with a strength that he had not realised he possessed. "Stop, and listen, or you are no better than orcs yourselves! If you imprison or torture or slaughter us without first hearing us, you are worse than the orcs you say you loathe! Boromir told me Gondor was a noble place, and if you hold us now without letting us speak, you spit on his legacy."

The men stopped, and stared at him. Many glared, and opened their mouths, but none of them spoke. Nelly and Bróin stayed quiet too, as did Sam, and Frodo fiercely met the eyes of all who looked at him. Finally, Faramir met his eyes.

"We of Gondor are not in the habit of executions without trials, though sometimes it cannot be helped, in war. Tell me, Frodo Baggins – where did the warg come from?"

"Isengard," Frodo answered bluntly. "Nelly and Bróin stole him when they escaped from Saruman's prison."

"Impossible," growled Rion.

"Why?" Frodo countered, fury clenching his fists. "Because she is a girl and he is a dwarf? If Boromir told you that he had escaped from Isengard, still clad in prison rags, with lash marks still red on his neck, would you doubt him? Look at them! Do you think a woman would chose to travel in that? Do you think a dwarf would not rather have a pair of real trousers? Do you not see the wounds on their wrists from their shackles?"

Rion did not look convinced. "I would eat my foot if that dwarf was even close to being of age, and the girl-"

"Could best any of you in combat," argued Bróin hotly. "And she could scale a cliff with only the strength in her fingertips. And I may be young, but I am not useless."

"Does the warg have a muzzle?" asked Faramir quietly, and Frodo frowned.

"What?"

"The warg? Can it be controlled?"

Frodo glanced at Bróin, who nodded.

"I can ride him," he said defiantly. "He won't hurt anyone if I tell him not to."

Faramir nodded slowly. "I ask you to come with us for the night. You will surrender your weapons, but will be under our protection, and we shall provide food and drink. We will camp together, and you will tell me your tale. I would like to believe that you are not spies, but until I am convinced, I cannot simply let you go."

"And if you don't believe us?" asked Nelly, her voice tight as a bowstring. "What then?"

Faramir bowed his head. "Then you will become prisoners of war, and will be held in Minas Tirith until an official trial can be held."

"You're not giving us much of a choice," she said, and Faramir inclined his head.

"No," he said. "But I give you the opportunity to come willingly, as guests."

"Very well," said Frodo heavily. He understood the politics. There was no choice, no alternative other than to start a fight that would kill them all, but the fact that Faramir was inviting them was a good sign. Especially after Toothy's appearance. Gripping his sword by the blade, Frodo offered the hilt to the nearest guard.

"Be careful with it, please," he said softly. "My brother forged it for me."

The man frowned slightly, though it was a look of innocent curiosity as opposed to a scowl of scorn. "I did not know halflings were such good swordsman."

"They aren't, as a rule," agreed Frodo, smiling wryly. "But there are exceptions to every rule, and in any case, the exception is a dwarf named Kíli Baggins. He may not be my blood, but he is a brother to me all the same." The thought of Kíli made Frodo's heart ache for home. If Kíli was here now, he would have charmed each and every one of the men by now. Unless Fíli talked them all out of trouble first.

When all the weapons had been surrendered, Bróin scrambled onto Toothy's back, and Faramir began to lead them away from the stream. Nelly walked beside Frodo, so close that her icy hand grazed his.

"Are you alright?" he asked in a low voice.

Nelly stiffened, and her arm wrapped tightly around her stomach. "Fine. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Frodo pressed gently. "Wasn't it you who told me it's best to talk about these things?"

She sent a fierce look his way, but fear flickered beneath it, and her bravado quickly crumpled. "I – when he – my feet weren't on the ground and – it was like I was, like I was back _there_ , Frodo, with – and they were going to – I – I – I thought – his hand… I thought…"

It felt like someone had tightened a noose around Frodo's neck and he shook his head, stopping in his tracks. "No," he said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly. "That won't happen. I won't let that happen. We won't let that happen. You're alright, Nell."

Nelly pursed her lips and turned her face away. She said nothing for the rest of the walk, but she did entwine her fingers around Frodo's. It did not take long for Faramir to lead them to the camp, and when he did, it became clear that these men knew Ithilien as well as hobbits knew the Shire. The small maze of caves that they had arrived at were all but completely hidden by moss and bushes and bracken, and Frodo was not sure that he would have been able to find it himself, even if he looked.

"This is not our main station in Ithilien," said Faramir, a slight smile on his face. "Just in case you're planning an incursion. Follow me." He led them through a tunnel that made the man duck, and forced Bróin to lie flat against Toothy's back. They emerged into a smaller cave lined with crates and a few urns. A small fire was already burning in the middle of the space, and in the corner there was a large sheepskin rug, covered with a few meagre blankets.

"Rion, Madril, you may stay if you wish," said Faramir. "As for everyone else, get some food, some rest. We shall call for you, if there is need."

By the grumbling, Frodo guessed that not everyone was happy with this, but Faramir ignored the noise, and turned to the two men who remained. Rion was clearly the younger of the two, with dark hair and darker eyes, and a fierce glint in his gaze. Unlike most of the others, he was clean-shaven, and Frodo wondered if he had managed to scowl away all of his facial hair with suspicious glares. The other man, Madril, was grey and weathered, but he still appeared strong and fit, and Frodo had no doubt that he knew exactly how to use the sword on his belt.

"If you are to stay," Faramir said to the men, "you are to listen, in silence. At the end, I will hear your questions and concerns, but first I will hear what our friends from Erebor have to say. Is that understood?"

Rion nodded sharply, and Madril gave a bow. "Of course, my lord. Shall I fetch the wine?"

Faramir nodded, and then turned back to Frodo. "I seem to remember that hobbits are often a hungry people. Can I offer you some supper?"

"I'm afraid we ate not five minutes before we ran into you," said Frodo, with a small smile. "I will only speak for myself, but I am alright for the time being – though I appreciate the offer, and by all means eat yourself."

Faramir nodded, and took some bread and cheese from a nearby crate. Frodo noticed that he gave wine to the hobbits and Broin, and food to his men before he touched his own plate.

"So," said Faramir. "Come, Frodo Baggins. Tell me your story, and leave nothing out."

Frodo stared at Faramir for a long moment, and then he began to speak. He started at his birthday party, and the fateful trip to the inn afterwards. He told Faramir of the Nazgul, and the men flinched, and though he told them who the wraiths had been chasing, Frodo carefully left out what. He spoke of the flight to Rivendell, and of meeting Boromir there, and the meeting of the Council of Elrond. Then, he paused.

He could here say that Elrond had sanctioned this mission. That they were the ones chosen for the task, and the Council had happily waved them off. But there was something in Faramir's eyes that stopped him. They were discerning, but trustful. Questioning, but faithful. It seemed wrong to lie, even for the sake of care, and as paused, Frodo remembered something that Boromir had told him, the night after he shared memory of his nightmare with the others.

 _"I know how it is to be burdened with a prophetic dream," he murmured, so quietly that Frodo would be the only one to hear, even if the others were not asleep. "It was a dream that chased me from my home. Not the words I spoke in the Council – they were the reason that someone had to set forth. But it was me who rode North, because Faramir had had these dreams. And I had had dreams of his death. Endlessly." A wry, weary smile had pulled at Boromir's lips. "It seems we are both racing to stop our dreams from coming true, Frodo Baggins."_

And so Frodo told the truth. "The mission they spoke of – this mission… It was to be my uncle's. Bilbo was to be the leader of this expedition. But we felt differently. Bilbo would take Kíli with him, and Nori, and they are needed in Erebor. We are just as strong and just as skilled as they are, and far less important… I knew by then that Dís was pregnant – that she would need Bilbo more than ever, that he would need to be with her – and I…" He paused. "I had a dream. While we were in the house of Tom Bombadil. I saw my family, saw _awful_ things happen to my kin… I could not let that happen. So I gathered Sam, and Nelly and Bróin, besides Merry and Pippin and our wolves, and we took the quest on our shoulders and ran. Boromir was the first to catch up with us. He rode with Gimli, Aragorn, and Legolas, and when he heard us, he agreed to join the quest. He saved our lives when we attempted to cross Caradhras – the snow forced us to retreat, but it was thanks to Boromir that we lived to flee."

Grief struck a harsh blow to Frodo's chest and he paused, glancing away from Faramir. If the intel of the men was right, if Boromir was dead –

He swallowed, and carried on with the tale, fighting through grief to tell of the events at the gates, and of the journey the Moria. And of Gandalf's fall. At that, Faramir's face lost all colour and his plate tumbled from his trembling hands, and Rion and Madril uttered soft sounds of despair, but all three men held their tongues. Frodo was grateful. If he stopped talking, he was not sure that he would be able to start again. His throat began to ache, and though he told himself that it was from the talking, he knew that it was the weight of unshed tears as he recalled Lórien, and the trip down the river –

And his walk with Boromir. There he paused again. He had not spoken to Nelly and Bróin about the argument that he had had with Boromir. He had barely mentioned it to Sam. The last thing he wanted was to suggest to Faramir that he held any ill will towards Boromir – and indeed, he did not want anyone else to get angry at Boromir, when it was truly the ring at fault. But he had promised himself that he would tell the truth.

So, feeling rather like he was digging his own grave, Frodo began to speak once more.

"We walked a long way. He disagreed with our route, and I understood why – but I'd made up my mind. We argued… well… We fought. The burden of our quest – it can twist your mind and Boromir – well… there was a moment when it was like he was not himself. There was… greed, in his eyes, greed and hate, and I was afraid of him." Swallowing, Frodo met Faramir's eyes. "I had never been afraid of your brother before. It was not my friend's eyes in that face, not his words when he spoke of doom and wrath and ruin… I was very afraid… we fought with fists and with words… and then he fell, and something cleared in his eyes. He saw sense. And we walked in two separate directions, to clear our heads. The next thing I knew, I stood upon Amon Hen, and the uruk-hai of Saruman were upon us. We chose to protect the quest, to scatter, and Sam and I were parted from Nelly and Bróin for a while. We made it to the Emyn Muil, but as no one joined us our fear grew and we became lost. That was where we met Sméagol – the slinking one. He is a wretched creature, but bound to me by oath, and for now, at least, he is our guide."

For the first time, Faramir spoke. "Will he pose any threat to our guard?"

Frodo glanced at Sam, and slowly shook his head. "I doubt it. I fear he does not love us – not enough to risk his own life, in any case. He will be nearby. Waiting."

Faramir nodded, and Frodo took it as invitation to continue. He spoke of their arrival at the gates of Mordor, and Sméagol's declaration of another way.

"A week ago, Nelly and Bróin caught us up, and then you found us," he finished. Faramir nodded again, more slowly, and then he turned his eyes to Nelly and Bróin.

"If you will, I would hear of what befell you, after the falls of Rauros," he said, in a voice so gentle that Frodo did not protest.

Bróin glanced at Nelly, and she pursed her lips. Then, she spoke. "We were cornered. Uruk-hai, dozens of them. We fought, but there were too many. They only wanted hobbits. They left Bróin for dead, but they captured me. But it'll take more than a couple of orcs to take down Bróin, son of Bombur." She smiled weakly, and Bróin grinned back. "He got up stole some of their grog and followed. What was it, a day, two before you caught us? But then he was captured, too, and we were taken to Isengard. To Saruman."

Rion hissed, and Madril's fist clenched. Frodo quashed the desire to run over and hug Nelly and Bróin for ten solid minutes, fearing that he might embarrass them a little, if he did.

And for now, Nelly was doing well on her own. "He tortured us," she said, her voice shaking only a little, though her eyes were glued to the ground. "He wanted information on Bilbo and Dís, he wanted to know about our families, about Erebor… We lied where we could, but… you do not want to know what he did." Bróin gave a cough to poorly hide a whimper, and shuffled closer to Nelly. Toothy crawled forward, and put his head in Nelly's lap. She smiled a little, and swallowed. "He wanted to use Bróin as ransom. His Adad's rich. Very rich. And then Isengard was attacked. Don't ask me when – I lost track of days a lifetime ago. But we got lucky. A guard dropped his keys when the attack began, and we got out of our cell. The trees broke apart the walls of Orthanc, and Bróin and I managed to get out. Get to a stable, and when it wasn't a horse, we improvised, and took Toothy as far and fast as we could. Bróin figured out that he might not be too bad, given a little affection, and he seems to be doing alright so far," she paused, scratching Toothy's ears. "Didn't realise he'd bargain for us, though."

Toothy gave a soft whine, and Faramir smiled sadly. "I do not doubt you showed that creature the first show of affection that he has ever seen. But tell me, what do you mean by the trees breaking the walls of Orthanc?"

Nelly glanced at Frodo, and he nodded. She shrugged a little. "That was what it looked like. Frodo said he thought they might be ents, but I haven't heard much about ents before. I thought they were fairy-tales, from Merry's books. But they looked like trees, and they were throwing great boulders into the tower. We didn't stop to chat."

Faramir nodded slowly, staring at Nelly and Bróin. After an endlessly long moment, he sighed, and looked back to Frodo.

"I know it all sounds unbelievable," said Frodo, "but don't you think we would come up with a simpler story, if it was not true?"

"Perhaps," murmured Faramir, gazing at Madril and Rion. "But can it be believed?"

"And what," added Rion, fixing sharp eyes on Frodo, "do you carry?"

* * *

Pippin felt numb. That was the only word for it, the only word that he knew, but it was not an accurate word. When you were numb, you felt nothing, but there was a great, aching hole in Pippin's chest, a grief and a fear that he had never felt before. It was worse even than Gandalf falling, worse than that being his fault.

Because it was not Gandalf that had fallen.

It was Nelly.

They all thought she was dead. Gandalf spoke of Saruman lying, and Aragorn murmured about hope, but they did not believe what they were saying. Pippin was not stupid. He could see their sorrow in their eyes, and read the lies on their lips. They all believed that Nelly was dead. Merry did too, and Gimli, but they did not hide behind pretty lies. They told him – Merry with his words and Gimli with bone-crunching hugs, and pointed silence. They had both cried, too. Almost as much as Pippin.

Pippin did not think that he had any tears left. He had nothing left at all. Nothing but the clothes on his back, and the thoughts in his head. According to Gandalf, none of that was worth giving. The wizard seemed to be trying to keep Pippin out of any conversation that might be in the least bit important. He had not told Pippin what the plan was for Saruman's detainment, or what the great glass ball that Gríma had thrown from the tower was, or why they were going to Edoras when Bróin was still out there, and Frodo still needed them, and Erebor was still so far away.

It had been Boromir and Legolas who told him that the ents were to keep watch on Isengard, and it was by eavesdropping on Aragorn and Gandalf that Pippin discovered that the Palantir, as it was called, was a device used in days gone by to communicate over long distances, and see things that were far away. And it was Gimli – who, to his credit, needed no prompting – explained that there was nothing they could regroup in Edoras, and plan their next move. It was Gimli who promised that they would never abandon Bróin, that they would do whatever it took to get him back.

If they did not save Bróin, if he died too –

The thought of it made Pippin's chest hurt so hard that he sat up, and wrapped his arms around his stomach. His blanket slipped into his lap, and he shifted on the uncomfortable wooden floor. They had reached Edoras near nightfall, and shared a meal to honour the dead. Pippin had drunk at the toast, but he had eaten nothing. Not even when Merry begged him to. Instead, he had slipped away into another hall, one where bedding had been laid out for the remnants of the fellowship, and other soldiers with them who were not local to Edoras. He had listened to the sombre speeches turn into partying and song, and when they did Merry joined him. Hours later, Boromir and Aragorn had carried Gimli into the room, and laid him beside Pippin. Legolas stood behind them, his eyes heavy.

"He drank as though his life depended on it," he had murmured.

And Pippin believed it.

Now, there was a lonely quiet around him. The once revelling soldiers were snoring around him, and though Legolas had gone outside with Aragorn, the rest of their fractured fellowship were sleeping. It was just Pippin awake. He glanced down at Merry, but despite the burning lump in his throat, he knew that he could not wake up his cousin simply because he was lonely. For now, Merry was at peace, maybe even in dream world where Nelly was alive, and everything was alright. Pippin could not drag him from that.

 _You're such a cry-baby, Pippin. Get up and do something about it!_

Tears spilled from his eyes as Nelly's words filled his mind. She had called him a cry-baby a lot when they were kids, though always in a tone that said she did not mean it. Teasing was Nelly's way of showing love, and Pippin had known that forever. He could see her now, her lips pursed in a wry smile and her arms folded cockily across her chest. She would smirk and shake her head, and tell him that he was being a baby. That everything would be fine.

Everything would not be fine.

He would never see her again. Ever. Not even in a coffin, or at a wake. She was dead, and she was gone, and there was nothing that he could do to change it. Nothing he could even do to see her.

He pressed his face into his borrowed pillow, trying to stop himself from crying, trying to smother the noise.

And then he paused.

Perhaps he could see her again. Maybe…

Aragorn said that the Palantir showed things that were far away – it could, then, show him his sister. A rush of cold sent a shudder through him. No one said that it showed the past – would he be able to cope if he saw her body? If he saw her _head_?

 _If it shows me where Bróin is, I can cope,_ he thought fiercely, rising to his feet. He was shivering, shaking from head to toe, but rising up through his grief was a yearning, a desperate desire to know. He had to know what happened.

He had to know.

His heart beat fast in his throat and he swallowed, tip toeing over to where Gandalf was sleeping. His feet made no sound, but he was afraid that the frantic beating of his heart would wake the wizard. For a moment, he thought that it had – Gandalf's eyes were wide open, and fixed upon Pippin, but when the hobbit froze, the wizard gave a great snore. Slowly, Pippin waved his hand before Gandalf's eyes, and when he did not even blink, the hobbit drew back, and took a deep breath.

 _Nelly,_ he thought, his eyes stinging again. He had to do this for Nelly.

The Palantir was in Gandalf's arms, wrapped in a grey cloth, but beside the wizard was a jug of a similar size, and Pippin took it silently. He took a slow, deep breath.

 _When you're nicking something from someone who's asleep, you've got to be smooth, Pippin, and quick. Don't move them, that's the key._

That's what Nelly had said, when she caught him trying to pinch her pillow one night on the road.

Swift as Nelly had ever been, Pippin swiped the ball from Gandalf's arms and slipped the jug into its place. The wizard did not stir.

Pippin breathed out, and scampered across to where his bedroll lay. The Palantir was heavier than he had expected, like a block of solid crystal, and he laid it carefully on the ground without so much as a sound. Then, he pulled the grey cloth away.

It was a strangely normal looking thing. A great ball of smooth crystal or glass, solid and shiny, with a darkness inside that did not look unlike the clever dye work of the dwarves of Erebor.

Pippin took a deep breath. He did not know how it worked, and he did not know if he wanted to see what it would show him but he had come so far. And he had to know.

He had to.

With all the concentration he could muster, Pippin thought of his sister.

 _I want to know where she is. I want to know where Nelly is. I want to know where Nelly is._

And his fingers touched the smooth stone.

At once, a shock ran through them, electric but painless, and it was like his hands were stuck to the sides of the ball. He took a deep breath, and pictured his sister in his mind.

 _Show me Nelly, he thought. Please._

His hands began to tingle, as though a hundred sparks danced beneath his palms and licked at his fingers, and then blackness spilled over everything he could see. He gasped, but through the darkness came an image, one that began to form before him, as though he could see it himself. It was a land he did not know, and there were men – tall men, clad in green and grey, and armed to the teeth, and –

Nelly.

She was there, she was alive! Alive and kicking, and one of the men had a knife to her throat but she was alive, and Pippin could see Bróin with her, and another pair of familiar faces -

And the world seemed to twist beneath him, and it felt like he was falling, falling far away through a darkness that reached in every direction, an endless space to tumble through, and a voice spoke out, sending a spasm of fear through Pippin's heart.

 _You are late. I have been waiting._

Another scene appeared before him, a blazing picture of pure white at first, shading into another land he did not know – courtyard of stone that circled a white tree, a tree that was burning, a tree whose trunk was splattered in blood.

 _Have you no excuse? Answer me!_

Pain tore into Pippin's head as though it had been caught in a vice, and he screamed, but though he could feel his voice ripping from his throat he could hardly hear it. It was so far away, and the cold, cruel voice was so much nearer.

 _You are not Saruman. Who are you?_

Terror coursing through him, Pippin tried to run, but his legs did not work. His whole body was frozen, and his hands held out in front of him, still holding the ball. Another screech of pain ripped into him, and Pippin cried out again, trying desperately to let go of the Palantir, but his hands were stuck. Far, far away, he could hear a faint voice crying back – he could hear Merry, calling out in fear, and he clamped his mouth shut. He could not scream back, not if the Voice would think he was saying that he was Merry, not if it would put Merry in danger –

The pain shot down Pippin's spine, burning his throat and his chest and his stomach, and he screamed, a white haze of pain clouding his vision of the burning tree. It was everywhere now, a sharp burn that would not let him go, that seared every inch of him, and with a thrill of horror, Pippin realised that he must be burning alive.

 _I am a hobbit!_ he thought desperately. He wanted to scream it, but his jaw seemed to be welded shut.

The Voice gave a cold, cruel laugh. _Are you indeed? Well, tell Saruman I shall send someone to fetch you soon. This prize is not for him. I shall see_ you _very soon._

Everything was on fire, they had tied him down and burnt him, that was the only way it could hurt so much, be so hot, and he screamed –

And fell –

And the darkness returned –

And then there was nothing.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you think, I really appreciate the feedback! In any case, thank you for reading.**


	76. Chapter 76: Of Brothers and Sisters

**Hello there! Sorry for the delay, the past few weeks have been incredibly busy! Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter, I truly appreciate it. As ever, please forgive any typos in this chapter, and I hope that you enjoy!**

 **Chapter Seventy-Six: Of Brothers and Sisters**

Fíli woke to darkness. Thorin and Kíli were both still asleep, and though they were hogging all of the covers, Fíli did not think that it was his cold feet that had woken him. He did not think it was a nightmare that had woken him either – though his sleep was often plagued by foul dreams, he did not remember anything particularly traumatic.

And then he heard it, and realised that it was not his own nightmare that had woken him.

Beside him, Kíli was whimpering, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his forehead. He was shivering a little and his slumbering face was twisted in terror that burnt Fíli's heart. He sat himself up and put a hand on Kíli's shoulder, rubbing it gently. Kíli flinched, and his eyes flew open in the darkness. There was a sharp gasp, and then, "Fee?"

"I'm here," Fíli whispered, stroking Kíli's hair. "You're safe, Kíli. I'm here."

Groaning, Kíli closed his eyes and titled his head towards his brother. "Wh' time is it?"

"Not sure," murmured Fíli, smiling a little. "Go back to sleep, nadadith. I'm here."

"S'rry for wakin' you," mumbled Kíli, but as he spoke he reached out, and Fíli took his hand.

"Don't be. Just sleep."

Kíli gave a soft sigh, and within moments, sleep had taken him again. He did not stir, and Fíli felt his eyes grow hot, and sting. Even in sleep, Kíli had no peace. He wondered if Tauriel might make something that could cause a dreamless sleep – such things existed for the elves, after all.

But Kíli had memories to fuel a lifetime of nightmares, and enough worries on his shoulders to turn a whole kingdom grey. Fíli shared such fears, of course, and his own dreams were plagued by scenes of death and destruction crashing down upon his kin and his kingdom, but he did not think it fair that Kíli had to suffer too. He knew that it was a little foolish to think in such a way, to allow himself fears that he would shield his brother from, but he did not care.

Kíli had been through so much, had suffered so much, and still the world kept throwing him trial after trial. Baby brothers were only supposed to get hurt in ways that you could laugh at. They were not supposed to be broken.

And there was no doubt about it - Kíli was broken. Fíli could see the silhouette of the cast beneath the blankets, the reminder that his brother might never walk again. He would never dance, or run, or swim, he would never climb trees or cliffs, he would never be able to do anything without the help of others.

Furiously, Fíli dashed at his eyes, and glanced at his brother.

No. Kíli would not spend the rest of his life feeling hopeless, or useless. Fíli may not be able to mend Kíli's spine, but he would do whatever it took to grant Kíli as much happiness and independence as possible. And he knew that there was something that he could do. Carefully, he slipped out of bed and crept to the side, pulling an ink well and scrap of parchment towards him in case Kíli panicked when he woke. Then, he slipped out of the room, and into the darkness of the hall.

* * *

Everything was very cold. A second ago he had been burning, but now he was frozen, unable to see. He was barely able to hear – everything was muffled and white, and the sad truth welled in his heart. They had burnt him alive, and then they had buried him out in the snow.

 _"Pippin!"_

Someone was screaming, screaming his name, and someone else was murmuring – a voice that somehow seemed nearer, but less clear, and he felt his heart beat faster. It was the only part of him that could move, the only piece of him that could flee from the Voice, from the pain it would bring, but it was too late, and the whiteness faded into vision –

And he saw a face above his own.

Concern was carved deeply into the lines on the old wizard's face, and Pippin became aware that Gandalf had one of his hands clutched in his own. He could feel the wooden floor beneath his back, and the cold of a breeze on his feet, and he could see the ceiling above him. He was no longer trapped in nothing, no longer falling, and he let out a soft sob.

"Gandalf?"

The wizard's face darkened, anger chasing away the concern, and he shook Pippin roughly. "Fool of a Took! Of all the inquisitive hobbits – you could not leave things alone for five minutes! What the devil possessed you?"

Flinching, Pippin tried to look for Merry, but Gandalf shook him again, and he looked back into the furious gaze of the wizard. He felt the hot stab of tears in his eyes, but he had no strength to stop them from falling.

"Nelly," he sobbed, feeling his voice shake as it left his trembling lips. "I – I just w-wanted to know… To know what happened… I thought… I thought…"

The red fury drained from Gandalf's face, leaving him looking pale and weary. His eyes widened, and rounded, and to Pippin's shock, the wizard's lip began to shake. With tears dancing in his eyes, Gandalf leant back, and stared at the hobbit for a long while. When he spoke again, his voice was as soft as a sigh.

"Oh, Pippin…"

Pippin looked away, and his eyes fell on Merry. His cousin was paler than even Gandalf, and trembling like a leaf. Gimli had an arm around his shoulder, but Merry did not seem to notice. He looked very afraid, and very small, and guilt churned in Pippin's stomach. He looked away.

"Did you not think that I would use the Palantir to look for your sister, were it safe to do so?" murmured Gandalf.

"I – I-" Pippin broke off and tried to avert his gaze, but Gandalf's hand squeezed his again, squeezed until it almost hurt, and Pippin set his eyes on the wizard once more. "I didn't…"

A dark wave of deep sorrow welled in Gandalf's eyes, and he shook his head slowly. "It did not even pass your mind that I might try, did it?"

Pippin shook his head slightly, and Gandalf closed his eyes. There was disappointment wrought into his wrinkles, and Pippin bit down on his lip. "But – but I saw her, Gandalf, I did see her!"

Like a flash of lightning, Gandalf's eyes burst open, fixing on Pippin intensely. "What? What did you see?

Pippin shivered, an echo of pain running through him. "I saw Nelly. I saw her, I saw her Gandalf, and, and she was alive and – and Bróin was there and, and Frodo and Sam too-"

"What?" said Gandalf sharply, his gaze further. "Frodo and Sam? Where were they?"

"I – I don't know, but there were men around them, lots of men – tall, in green and grey and they, Gandalf, they had a knife to her throat and – and then it went dark, and… and I was somewhere else. I don't know where. I heard someone speaking. A Voice…"

"A Voice?" asked Gandalf sharply, a sudden intensity in his eyes. "What did it say? Tell me!" when Pippin hesitated the wizard shook him again. "The exact words, Peregrin, tell me now!"

His voice stammering in time with his frantic heart, Pippin recalled the Voice's words as best he could, and as Gandalf's face grew more fearful the hobbit's own voice shook all the more. But the wizard kept his hands as a vice on Pippin's shoulders, and he would not let the hobbit stop until he had recounted every word, and described the images he had seen in a detail that made his head hurt.

Then, finally Gandalf released him, and Pippin let his eyes close, and his head fall against the floor. He was such a fool. Such a stupid, useless little fool. He had not helped his sister. He had not helped Frodo. He had just gone and put his foot in it again, just gone and made everything ten times worse. He could tell by wizard's expression, by Gimli's horror and Merry's terror.

He should just throw himself on his own sword, so he could never be a nuisance again.

Around him, people all began to talk at once, quickly and quietly and all at once, their voices blending into each other and making it impossible to distinguish voice from voice.

"What does it mean, Gandalf?"

"Is he alright? Is Pippin alright?"

"Minas Tirith… they must be warned…"

"Who was-"

" _Dammit_ , Gandalf, is Pippin alright?"

"What was-"

"If-"

"Hush," said Gandalf, silencing the babble of voices around Pippin. "It seems we were rather fortunate, in some ways. Sauron has shown his hand – his wrath shall strike upon Minas Tirith. This means we may have a chance to prepare ourselves."

"That was Sauron?" cried Gimli, his voice considerably higher than usual. "Pippin was speaking with Sauron?"

 _Of course I was,_ thought Pippin glumly, even as a shiver of icy terror ran down his spine. _My failures are the only spectacular thing about me._

Gandalf sighed heavily. "I fear so, yes. The Palantir was how Saruman would communicate with Sauron – it seems Pippin inadvertently attended a meeting in Saruman's place. Unfortunately, it seems that Sauron now believes that _Pippin_ is the one who took Bilbo's burden from him."

It took Pippin a moment to realise that Gandalf was speaking of the ring, but when he did, he felt his whole body go limp.

Sauron thought that he, Pippin, had the Ring of power. That was why he said he would see Pippin soon, that was why he had hurt him so badly. And there was nothing that Pippin could do about it. Not even Merry could talk him out of trouble this time. He ought to be locked away and forgotten about, somewhere dark and cold where he could not bring danger upon anyone else ever again.

A hand rested on his shoulder, and he turned his face away.

"Pippin. Look at me."

Surprise opened Pippin's eyes before he had a chance to stop it. He had not realised that Boromir was even in the room, he had seen no one but Gandalf and Merry and Gimli, but now he saw the crowd around him, and Aragorn and Legolas among them, and Boromir kneeling beside him. And, for some unfathomable reason the man was smiling. It was a sad, strained look, stained with fear, but it was a smile nonetheless.

"Sit up, lad," he said softly, easing his hand behind Pippin's shoulder. "Sit up now."

Pippin obeyed, largely due to the man's firm hand on his back, and he shivered.

"Look at me," ordered Boromir, his voice gentle as a mother hobbit's. "Pippin, look at me."

Feeling more and more like a stupid child by the second, Pippin reluctantly raised his eyes to Boromir's.

"Listen now. We will not let Sauron anywhere near you. He will not touch you. Do not be afraid." Boromir squeezed Pippin's shoulder again. "We shall protect you from the curse, and we will take the blessing. Because there is a blessing here, Pippin. Two of them! The first is that we know our enemy's plan, and that alone might save my city. That knowledge might just save my people. And the second is that we know there is still hope for all people – and good hope! Frodo and Sam are on track, and Nelly and Bróin are with them, and are safe."

"Safe?" croaked Pippin, his hand wrapping around his own throat. "There were men, soldiers with knives and-"

"Clad in the garb of the Rangers of Ithilien," interrupted Boromir, his smile growing a little stronger as he gave Pippin's shoulder a gentle shake. "That is what you described, I am sure of it. And if they are indeed the Rangers, they will have no cause to do Nelly, or any of the others, any harm at all."

"But – but what if they don't believe them, or, or they try to take it for themselves or-"

"There is always a risk of such things, Pippin," said Gandalf heavily. "That was always a doom that may come to pass. But for now, we must trust to the men of Gondor, and turn our eyes to their city. Aragorn, fetch Théoden and Eómer at once! There is much to discuss."

With that, the wizard swept from the room, and the men hurried around after him. All the men, save Boromir, who remained on his knees beside Pippin.

"Do not torture yourself over this, Pippin," he said. "You did it out of love, your intentions were noble. I attacked Frodo out of anger and jealousy. If I might be forgiven, so may you."

"So, you think I should get nearly murdered by orcs too, then?" he mumbled half-heartedly, and Boromir smirked a little, but Merry blanched.

"Don't even say things like that, Pippin," he said, his voice hollow. "Don't even joke."

"It'll be alright lad," said Boromir, standing up at last and clapping a hand to Merry's shoulder too. "This is a blessing. We will not let it become a curse, too."

* * *

The atmosphere in the cave was that of a thorn-bush, choked by drought. To move in the slightest was to get pricked, scratched, cut, to try and talk was to feel sand in your throat. No one moved, and no one spoke.

Nelly wanted to run. She wanted to sprint for the door and race as fast as her legs would carry her, she wanted to get away from these men and their swords and their grasping hands.

A small part of her reasoned that they had not been overtly indecent, and Rion's travelling grip had been largely – if not entirely – due to her own fighting and wriggling, but it did not seem to matter much. Feeling her legs and arms held tight, feeling her feet lift from the ground – it had sent her tumbling back into the memory that had seared itself into her skull, into the horror of the uruk-hai of Isengard, and how close they had come to –

She wanted to run.

She wanted to run, and to scream, and to cry, and she wanted to beat at her own chest, and rip her hair out at the roots, because she did not run, or scream, or cry. She was Nelly Took, and she was supposed to be the strong one, the brave one, the one who only cried to manipulate enemies (or annoying siblings), the one who only screamed when surprised. If she was not strong, and brave, she was not Nelly. If she was not Nelly, she did not know who she was.

And she did not know how she could have let the uruk-hai take 'Nelly' from her.

She pursed her lips together so tightly that it hurt – tight enough to stop them from shaking. Her nails were digging into her arms, anchoring her fingers in her skin so that her hands could not tremble, and every muscle in her body was cramped, still, waiting.

And useless.

Now was not a time for fighting or running – it was a time for talking your way out of trouble – something else that Nelly was supposed to be good at. Had that been stolen from her to? Had Saruman ripped the ability from her when he tortured Bróin, burnt it out of her with her own pain?

Well. If he had, it was time for her to march up and take it back. She took a deep breath, and relaxed her throat, and spoke in a voice so even it almost fooled herself.

"Who says we were carrying anything?"

Rion turned his sharp eyes towards her. "Master Baggins spoke of a burden, and though it may be a metaphor, I doubt it. Not when your silence spoke so loudly."

"That's a rather fast conclusion to jump to," she said, forcing her fingers to ease their grip on her arms. "You ought to be careful. As to what, if anything, we carry, that is none of your business."

"It is if it might harm us," protested Rion, and Faramir held out his hand.

"Peace, Rion," he murmured, his eyes fixed intently on Frodo. "I think I know what it is that you carry. Show me."

"What makes you say that?" asked Nelly sharply, but fear slipped into her voice and she winced. When Faramir spoke, his head tilted her way, but his eyes remained fixed on Frodo.

"Seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells. There shall councils be taken, stronger than Morgul spells. There shall be shown a token that Doom is near at hand, for Isildur's Bane shall waken, and the Halfling forth shall stand. The riddle begins to become clear, now. A token of Doom, the bane of Isildur… Am I wrong to think that the Ring of Power has been found?"

"I don't know," said Nelly, widening her eyes just enough to look confused and praying that they did not betray her fear. She had to keep his attention on her, on the one who (was supposed to have) had the best poker face, to keep him from catching the truth in Frodo's eyes. "It might've been found, but what would we know about it? And how would a hobbit come across such a thing, anyway?"

"I have known since the age of four that hobbits are not to be underestimated, Miss Took. Show me."

"Did you not hear what Frodo said?" demanded Sam, anger burning in his eyes. "Boromir saw it, and he tried to take it! The Ring drove your brother mad-"

"By the Valar, they do have it," breathed Madril, and Nelly drew her feet beneath her, ready to spring, to fight, to flee. She knew that it would be hopeless, that they were surrounded and outnumbered and weapon-less, but she would not die mewling like a coward.

"It seems that way, Madril. Rion," said Faramir, his voice still even, though there was something very much like anger in his eyes. "Take your hand from your blade. There are no enemies here. I am not my brother, Frodo Baggins. I do not wish for honour or glory, and I know that I have not the strength to wield a Ring of Power. If I found it lying abandoned on the roadside, I would like to think that I would not take it. will take nothing from you without your leave, but I would like to see it. Please, show me."

"Uh uh," muttered Broin, his fists clenched tightly in Toothy's fur. "Bad idea, Frodo."

"Please."

Frodo hesitated, his hand rising slowly towards his neck, and Nelly held her breath. "Why do you want to see it, if you do not mean to take it?"

Faramir's eyes grew heavy with grief, and for the first time he glanced away from Frodo. Then, he looked back. "I should like to see the thing that spurred my brother to Mordor, instead of back to our people. I would like… I want to see the thing that drew Boromir to his death."

Broin shook his head, and Sam clenched his jaw, but they said nothing, and Nelly found herself all but paralysed as Frodo reached into his shirt, and slowly pulled out a silver chain.

He opened his palm, and there it was.

So small. So perfect.

So wrong.

Rion and Madril both leant towards it, and Frodo recoiled, but neither man moved their hands, and Faramir remained very still. Nelly could see the gold reflected in his eyes, could see awe and lust and fear around it.

"Not if I found it by the wayside," he murmured, in a voice that would not go amiss in a dream. Slowly, his hand reached out, and Frodo leapt back against the wall. Before thought even reached her, Nelly had sprang in front of him, fists at the ready, and Sam was beside her, and Toothy raised a snarling head –

And Faramir blinked.

And closed his fingers.

A sad smile slipped across his face, a look of sorrow so deep it must be born of grief. "Not if it lay by the highway… not if Minas Tirith was burning, and I alone could save her. I would not take this thing. I will not. You do not need to fear, Frodo. Your quest – and your secret – are safe with us."

Madril stared at Faramir for a long moment, and then nodded, but Rion kept his eyes on Frodo.

"What is it you seek to do with this Ring? Take it straight to Sauron's front door?" he asked sharply.

"We are going to destroy it," replied Frodo, his voice equally icy. "That is our purpose."

"No mean feat," said Faramir, and even as his smile grew, the sadness in his eyes grew deeper. "It is no wonder my brother wished to aid you. We will help you, where we can. "

"You trust them, my lord?" asked Rion, narrowing his eyes at Faramir. When Faramir nodded, the other man sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Some of the tension eased from his shoulders, and he shook his head a little.

"So be it. I shall speak nothing of this matter, but if they end up being enemy spies, I reserve the right to remind you of my feelings on the matter."

Despite herself, Nelly snorted, and as the eyes of the others turned to her she offered an apologetic smile. "I must remember that – I have never been able to make 'I told you so' sound polite before!"

For the first time, the corner of Rion's lip softened into what could almost be considered a smile, and Faramir grinned.

"That right is yours, Rion, though I doubt you will need to exercise it." He turned to Frodo once more. "Madril and Rion are my most trusted advisors, and save my brother I hold no-one dearer, in either counsel or my heart. When they give their word, they will not break it, I assure you."

Sam gave a poorly muffled 'humph' of disbelief, and Nelly followed his gaze to Rion. He was glaring back at Sam, thin eyebrows furrowed over long-lashed eyes.

"My word is my bond," he said. "On my life, I would not break it. And I swear now that I will speak no word of what I've heard here, lest my lord grant me leave."

Nelly studied the man's eyes for a moment, and decided that if he was lying, he was most convincing. But as she looked, and really looked, she found that there was something odd about Rion. Something different. She narrowed her eyes and studied him carefully, taking in his rather delicate, almost elfin features, and his dainty yet calloused hands. He was not quite so tall as Faramir, and lacked the facial hair of most of his comrades, and there was a softness to his jaw and face. Though his muscles were clearly defined, even beneath his uniform, there was a shape to his body that she did not expect from a ranger. He had a thin waist, yet rather wide hips, and –

"Oh," she breathed.

Rion looked sharply at her, voice laced with suspicion. "What?"

"You – nothing," she said. "It's not my place to say."

"To say what?" pressed Rion.

Nelly raised her eyebrows, and stared sincerely into Rion's eyes as she spoke. "Truly, I do not think you want me to say."

Rion looked furiously at Faramir, who in turn sent a curious look Nelly's way.

"You may speak freely here, Miss Took," he said. "If it is your wish."

"It isn't, thank you. I was merely thinking aloud," she said, turning her own eyes to Faramir. "So, Lord Faramir. What happens now? Will you let us go?"

Faramir glanced at Rion and nodded slowly. "If you wish, you may leave at any time. But I offer you leave to stay. We travel south in tomorrow morning, and will make for the Window to the West. It is the oldest and most secret refuge in these lands, and I would have you travel with us. From there, we can lend you more provisions for your journey – I believe we will also be able to source some more… appropriate… clothing for you and Master Bróin. We would have to blindfold you for the final mile or so of the route, but you would be guests, not prisoners. You could then re-join the skulking fellow and continue on your way with good supplies."

Frodo hesitated, glancing at Nelly, and then Bróin, and then Sam. After a long moment, he looked back at Faramir. "If you wouldn't mind, that would be lovely. But _no one_ outside of this room can know of our business."

"That we agree on," said Faramir, bowing his head. "Do you think this 'Gollum' will follow you?"

"Undoubtedly," said Frodo. "Whether he wants to or not. He is bound to… it, and therefore to me."

Still looking suspiciously at Nelly, Rion spoke up. "Yet he cannot enter Henneth Annûn uninvited. The penalty for that is death. If you wish him to be spared, Master Baggins, I suggest you find some way to get him to agree to a blindfold."

Bróin snorted, a grin stretching across his face as Frodo groaned. He put his hands over Toothy's eyes, and though the warg whined, he did not move.

"Who has the better pet now, eh cousin?" teased Bróin, and Frodo shook his head – though Nelly explicitly saw him roll his eyes.

"Thank you, Bróin," he muttered. "I will do my best. I do not want him injured."

"And I do not want to injure him, so you best catch him," added Rion, earning another wry smile from Faramir.

Shaking his head ever so slightly, Boromir's younger brother stood up. "I think such matters can be left for tomorrow. You must be tired, and I know that we are. I must see to my men, but do make yourselves comfortable, and please, sleep. You are safe here." He bowed, and returned to the small tunnel to leave. Rion followed on his heels, but Madril paused, looking over his shoulder at them with a wry smile.

"And don't you worry lads, and lady. We won't be offended if you decide to set your own watch."

With that, they were left alone, and Nelly let out a breath she did not know she had been holding.

"Well, that was interesting," she sighed. Weariness was beginning to way on her limbs, and the strange, weightless feeling that remained when a deep fear had fled was spreading through her body.

"Aye," muttered Bróin, and then he frowned slightly. "What was it, Nelly? That you didn't think Rion'd want you to say?"

Nelly laughed slightly. "Wasn't it obvious?"

"No," said Bróin and Sam together. She glanced at Frodo, who shook his head, and then Nelly laughed again.

"I suppose it is rather well hidden. But it does explain why Rion is so fiery, and doesn't avoid a woman's chest while wrestling."

"What is? What does?" pressed Bróin.

"Rion is not a man," she said, grinning, and the boys all blinked. Frodo's eyes widened in realisation, but the other two were clearly a little too tired for logic.

"What is he then?" demanded Bróin. "An elf? He certainly isn't a hobbit!"

"No, he is not," agreed Nelly, and Frodo began to chuckle softly to himself.

"What is so funny?" demanded Bróin. "I don't understand."

"It's so obvious," she said, enjoyment creeping up on her. How long had it been since she properly teased Bróin like this? Weeks? Months? She did not know, but it was funny, and the frustration on his face was endearing, and it made her want to laugh and laugh and laugh.

"Nell, come _on,"_ Bróin moaned, and she giggled even as Frodo put Bróin out of his misery.

"Rion isn't a man, Bróin, because she is a woman."

"Wha-" Bróin's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and he leant forward to try and stare down the tunnel. Sam started to chuckle, and Bróin narrowed his eyes at Nelly. "Are you messing with me?"

Nelly shrugged innocently, and Bróin stuck his tongue out at her, his eyes sparkling. A warmth was spreading through her, and she smiled, leaning against Frodo and letting out a yawn. Despite doubts and fears that gnawed the back of her mind like bed-bugs, she felt safe. She felt hopeful.

She felt like Nelly.

* * *

There was a lot that had to be done.

The news of the return of the royal family had to be spread, but attention could not be drawn to Frodo's absence. They did not want the entire city speaking of the quest to Mordor, yet they could not lie and say that he was still in the Shire. Such secrets inevitably came to light, and sparked more questions. More dangerous questions. So, they would have to be clever, and word things very carefully. They would have to ensure that Thranduil's supplies were used and distributed efficiently and fairly, find somewhere to sow his seeds. They had to ease the people's reaction to the mountain now sheltering elves as well as men, they had to ensure that the arrival had not incited an attack on the mountain. It was unlikely that the enemy could do much damage, but such incursions were never good for morale.

Yet for now, Thorin could not bring himself to care.

He was more concerned with the fact that he had woken to find that Fíli had gone to the forge before dawn even broke, and with trying not to look ungrateful when the elves came in to check over Kíli.

Tauriel – who Thorin had become begrudgingly fond of over the years – had shown him the wedge-shaped pillow she had fashioned for Kíli, that he might be propped up without doing any further damage to his spine. She did not want him sitting up fully straight for at least two weeks, in case the flight had exacerbated things. Kíli looked so small as she talked. So tired, so breakable. Thorin had wanted to order the elves to stop talking, to leave them alone and just go, but he knew it wold do no good, so he kept his mouth shut and listened to her instructions. Then, when the elves had gone to deliver supplies to the healing halls, Thorin marched straight to Kíli's little kitchen, and cooked up breakfast.

Now, like some common serving boy, he was balancing a tray on his palms, laden with a plate of eggs and bacon, and a small pot of steaming tea. With a smile on his face, he walked back into Kíli's bedroom, and when he saw Thorin and the tray, Kíli's eyes lit up as bright as fireworks.

"I hope nothing is burnt," Thorin said, placing the tray carefully on Kíli's lap. Kíli stared down at the plate, and the tea, and his eyes filled with tears. Thorin shifted uncomfortably. "Uh… do you need help?"

Kíli shook his head and looked up, smiling at his uncle. "No. Thank you, Uncle Thorin. I'm just… glad to be home, that's all. I wasn't expecting breakfast in bed – though I don't know where else I would eat it. It looks wonderful. Have you got something?"

Thorin held up his own tea cup and shook his head, smiling slightly. "I am fine, Kíli. If you must know, I snagged a sausage and a little bacon while I cooked."

Kíli grinned. "How very un-kingly of you, Uncle."

"Aye, I know." Thorin sank into the chair beside Kíli's bed as his nephew began to eat. He did not want to leave. There was still a part of him afraid that this was a dream, that if he walked away Kíli would vanish into the ether.

"This is actually pretty good," said Kíli, sounding rather surprised.

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "What are you saying about my cooking, boy?"

"That it's improved. Didn't you once give Amad food poisoning from vegetables?"

Thorin grunted, and folded his arms. "I'm going to sew your mother's lips shut."

They sat in silence for a while, as Kíli ate and Thorin drained his coffee, but when Kíli put down his knife and fork, Thorin's insides winced. He recognised the look on his nephew's face – the hesitance in his flickering eyes, the twisting of his lips, the twitching of his nose… Kíli wanted to talk about how he was feeling. Swallowing his own discomfort, Thorin moved the tray away, and waited.

Eventually, Kíli spoke. "How long do you think it will be until Fíli can look at me again?"

Thorin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean _really_ look at me. He… ever since I… He doesn't really look at me. He won't meet my eyes, won't… He didn't waste any time in getting away this morning," said Kíli glumly, letting his head fall back against the head-board.

"It is hard for him," said Thorin carefully. "Hard for all of us, to see you like this."

"I know." Kíli's voice was very small. "But… it's hard for me, too, Thorin."

His heart twisting painfully, Thorin nodded. "I cannot imagine how hard," he said, picking his words as carefully as he could, and making sure that he met Kíli's eyes. "I do not think for a moment that it is not, and neither does your brother. He has not left your side before today, has he? I thought not. To answer your question, I think that Fíli will look you in the eye when he has felt that he has done something valuable to help you. When he feels that he has paid penance for allowing this to happen."

"It wasn't his fau-"

"I know it wasn't his fault, Kíli," Thorin said, holding up his hand in what he hoped would be a placating manner. "We all know. I'm sure that somewhere, deep down, Fíli knows it too. He will come around. He only needs time."

Kíli sighed, twisting his fingers into his blanket. "I wish he didn't…"

"Well, I imagine you yourself would need such time if Frodo was in such a state-" Thorin broke off as Kíli's eyes widened in horror, and he remembered exactly where Frodo was. Thorin's heart dropped down through his stomach, and he shook his head. "I did not mean – I should not have… That is a poorly timed example."

Kíli gave a weak smile and a small shrug. "Not the best of examples, no. Or maybe it is…" Kíli hung his head and sighed sadly. "I should've realised that Frodo was planning something, I should have known that-"

"No, no – by bringing up Frodo I did not mean that you should feel-" Thorin groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh, this is useless… Truly, you need your father for this sort of conversation, Kíli my lad. I just make such matters far worse. But do not blame yourself for Frodo. None of us could have expected that _he_ would be the one to run off on such a mission. Out of the three of you, I would have pegged you down for that."

Kíli opened his mouth, and then paused. "No, that's fair. But Thorin, he's so _young._ Do you think… do you think he might make it?"

A stab of pain shot into Thorin's chest at the alternative, and he paused as an image of a wide-eyed, smiling child appeared in his mind. But he thought too of Frodo's progress in the training arena, of his wit and his courage and his calm, steady loyalty, and he took Kíli's hand, squeezing it tightly.

"Do you know, Kíli," he murmured, "I think he just might."

 **I hope you liked that chapter, a wee bit more hopeful in places! It was nice to catch up with several storylines – which one did you enjoy most? I would love to know that, and any other opinions/feedback you may have!**

 **Thank you so much for reading – I will hope to have the next chapter up on Monday, but I'm working solidly all weekend so it may be later in the week, and with the run up to Christmas, I may be a little behind, I'm afraid. Nevertheless, in the New Year we should get back to regular updates, as my schedule evens out a little!**

 **Until the next time I see you, take care!**


	77. Chapter 77: Meetings and Partings

**Happy New Year! I'm so sorry that it's taken so long for this to get up, but there have been several factors outside of my control contributing to the delay. Thank you all for your patience, especially to you lovely reviewers! As ever, please forgive any mistakes in this chapter!**

 **Chapter Seventy-Seven: Meetings and Partings**

"Don't you think it _must_ be lunchtime by now? We haven't even had breakfast."

Drenched in sweat and smeared from head to toe in soot and grime, Fíli brought his hammer down against the metal once more, not even pausing to look at Ehren. At first, his friend had been a little help, but Ehren was never one for forge work, and for the last three hours he had been simply sitting and smoking, and occasionally commenting on Fíli's form, or spieling off about some lass or the other that he had met back in the Blue Mountains.

"Not hungry," grunted Fíli, striking the metal again. "You can go."

"Well no, I can't." Ehren pointed his pipe at Fíli. "Last time I took my eyes of a charge, he ran away to Mordor."

Fíli stiffened, and for the first time he his eyes left the workbench to glare at Ehren. "I am _not_ your charge. And Frodo…"

"Unfortunately for us both, you are my charge," said Ehren, unperturbed by the glare. "When Dwalin wakes me up at five in the morning and tells me you're down here on your own and the king wants me to watch your back, you're my charge. Five am. I mean really – we just got here yesterday. Couldn't you've waited?"

"No," Fíli growled, turning back to his work. "This is important."

"He won't be able to use it for weeks, Fíli, there's no rush."

"Ehren, if you're so hungry just _go_ and get something to eat!" insisted Fíli, rolling his shoulders to try and ease the frustration. "I'm sure that you aren't being paid to annoy me."

"Not sure I'm being paid at all," grumbled Ehren. "It's more like babysitting the cousins."

Fíli's nostrils flared, and his irritation swelled into anger. "I do not _need_ a babysitter, Ehren. I can look after myself, dammit, and this is a private bloody forge! There's _never_ anyone in here! You're not protecting me – you're _infuriating_ me! If all you're going to do is gripe and moan, I'll hire someone else to be my bodyguard! Someone who can just stand there and shut up."

Ehren stiffened, and stood up, his eyes burning. "As is your right," he said tightly. "Why would I care if you replaced me? Hired someone who didn't give a damn whether you ate or slept, as long as you lived, and they were paid? It's not like we are friends. We haven't fought together and drank together and grieved together. Oh, wait…"

Fíli opened his mouth, but Ehren shook his head and held up his hands, backing away towards the door.

"Don't bother. I'm sorry I couldn't be a better guard. Couldn't figure out what you needed. I'm sorry I tried to make you feel better and I'm sorry it didn't work. I'm sorry I don't know how to make it all sunshine and roses – I'm sorry I'm not _Soren_!" Ehren froze, but the words had been released, and they struck Fíli with such a force that he stumbled backwards, his hand reaching onto the workbench to steady himself.

"I – I'm sorry," Ehren gasped, his eyes round with horror, and the scorching reek of burning flesh met Fíli's nose.

The pain hit him a second later, and he gasped, wrenching his hand away from the searing metal that had burnt it. Ehren swore loudly and darted away, grabbing a nearby bucket and dragging it over. He seized Fíli's hand by the wrist before the prince could so much as blink, and dunked it deep into the cool water. Though immediate, the relief was not complete, and Fíli squeezed his eyes shut, praying that it might ease the throbbing pain. He could hear Ehren panting beside him, as he himself struggled to catch his breath, but as the seconds ticked away, and the pain continued to pulse, it grew quiet.

"I'm so sorry," said Ehren, his voice small and meek. "I was out of order, saying – saying that…"

Fíli sighed, shaking his head without opening his eyes. "No, Ehren, I'm… I am the one who should be sorry, who was out of order. I should not have shouted at you, said those things, I didn't…"

There was a long moment of quiet, and then Ehren spoke again. "How's the hand?"

"Sore."

"I'll run to the Healing Halls, if you like. Get a balm to throw on it, some bandages?"

"That would be nice. It is unlikely that anyone else will threaten me here, but the guards aren't far, anyway. I'll shriek like a damsel if anything happens. And on the way back you can pick us up a couple of hot pies from the market. Take the coin from my purse."

"Right you are, your highness."

Fíli heard Ehren walk to the door, heard him ignore the coin purse. Then, he opened his eyes. "Ehren?"

His friend turned, and Fíli's gut churned. Ehren's eyes were red-ringed, and heavy as lead weights.

"I would not have anyone else beside me. And I would not – under any circumstances – lose you too."

Ehren gave a weak smile and a small nod. "That's good to know."

Then he left, locking the door behind him, and Fíli groaned, letting his chin drop to his chest.

He had to do better than this.

He had to _be_ better than this.

It was not Ehren's fault that Kíli was injured, and it was not Ehren's fault that Frodo had snuck off to Mordor, either. But it was Fíli's fault that he could not keep his temper, and it was Fíli's fault that Ehren had felt, even for a moment, that Fíli would rather see him dead, and Soren living in his place. That stung worse than his blistering hand.

He could not take his anger out on anyone else. It was not fair, it was cruel. It was not him. He had to be better than this.

He probably should not even be here. He should probably be with Kíli, be reuniting with the family he had left behind, helping Thorin with what had to be done. Doing his duty as a prince, rather than hiding in the forge. And snapping at his friends.

Yet he also yearned for more time away – for time when he did not have to worry about Kíli or Amad or Thorin, when he did not have to be strong and calm, and carry their fear and grief on his shoulders. He did not mind the burden – he greatly preferred to carry it himself, but he just needed another hour or two here, alone. He just needed to be alone with his work, to pour his heart and soul and mind into the forging process.

He just needed to think about nothing.

The snick of a key in a lock drew his gaze up, and he frowned towards the door. Ehren would not be back so soon, surely? It was not far to the Healing Halls or the markets, but it would take at least ten or twenty minutes for him to fulfil his tasks, and Fíli had expected him to take longer. He could not be surprised if Ehren needed time away from him, time to clear his own head.

The hair on the back of Fíli's neck stood up.

Though connected to the other forges, the Royal Forge was officially off-limits to all but the Royal Family, and those given express, written permission. As far as Fíli was concerned, it should be empty.

His good hand slipped to the knife on his belt, and he thanked the Valar that he was ambidextrous as he fought the urge to clench his right fist. Using all of the stealth he had picked up from Kíli and their hobbits over the years, he sidled towards one of the room's large stone pillars, shifting the bucket of water along the bench with him. He only paused when he had reached a vantage point, from where he could see the door, but those at the door would struggle to see him.

Almost the moment that he got there, the door eased open, and a grey-clad figure with a large, dark sack sidled inside. They turned, shutting the door gently behind them, and then let out a soft sigh, lowering the sack to the floor and raising their head toward the ceiling. The glowing light of the forges revealed the face of a young, dwarven woman, perhaps Fíli's age and height, though she may have been younger. Or older. Fíli had never been the best judge of age.

But he could tell at once that she was not high nobility. Her clothes were simple work-gear, and lacked the embroidered adornments or patterns that were more common among lords and ladies. His own trousers were his simplest pair, but even they had embroidery running down the seams, and around his waist and ankles.

Her dark hair was braided, and then thrown up into a messy bun atop her head – a style that was all but unheard of among high noble ladies, but he could make out a couple of golden beads woven into the braids. Her shoes, though well worn and fraying, did not look cheap, and there were a few rings on her fingers that caught the firelight when she brushed her hair back.

She was a minor noble, then, from a less established family.

Not someone that was supposed to be in the Royal Forge.

Her eyes fell on Fíli's workbench, and the tools still sitting there, and she stiffened.

"Hello?" she called uncertainly, in a lilting accent indicative of the Iron Hills. "Who is there?"

"I think the more appropriate question is 'who are you?'" said Fíli, stepping out of the shadows, and removing his hand from the bucket. The pain hissed up his arm, but he ignored it, staring down the woman, who stepped backwards. "And why are you here? This is a private forge."

The woman gave a careful curtsey, and though she bowed her head, she kept her eyes fixed on Fíli. "Forgive the intrusion, my lord. My name is Tûra, daughter of Ovie. I was not expecting anyone to be here – Lord Dain gave me permission to use this forge several months ago, as long as I did not get in anyone's way." She drew out a yellowing envelope from her pocket and walked over, passing it to him with another curtesy, before taking a step backwards.

Frowning slightly, Fíli looked over Dain's familiar, scruffy handwriting.

 _I, Dain Ironfoot, do request that Tûra, daughter of Ovie, be allowed use of a private forge in Erebor._

Beneath it was another sentence, in Thorin's handwriting.

 _By will of the King, Tûra, daughter of Ovie, may make use of the Royal Forge._

"I see…" said Fíli slowly, looking up at her. "May I ask why?"

Tûra smiled slightly, and turned to the side, and Fíli's eyes widened. Tied to her back was a baby – no more than seven or eight months old, staring at Fíli with deep, soulful eyes.

"It's just us," Tûra murmured. "Just us, and the main forges are too busy and loud – it's not safe to take her there."

Fíli's brows furrowed towards a frown, but he could not help but smile at the baby. "But we have care systems in place, for those who need their children watched while they work. Why did Dain direct you here, instead of the nurseries?"

Tûra winced, and her hand rose up towards the baby. "I – I did use a nursery, m'lord, in the Iron Hills, when she was first born, but… there was an… accident. I nearly lost her, and I – I could not imagine leaving her with strangers again. When I chose to leave home… Lord Dain promised that I might continue practise my craft without having to leave her behind."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," said Fíli, tearing his eyes away from the baby's sombre gaze to look back at the mother. "Truly, I am sorry. What's her name?"

A small smile slipped across Tûra's face. "Lula."

"A pretty name," commented Fíli, nodding at the child. "For a pretty baby." He stuck out his tongue, and the child's eyes widened. She had the same eyes as her mother, wide and dark, with the same deep brown irises and long lashes. They were soulful eyes, eyes that had seen a lot.

They were very serious eyes for a baby.

"Ab-ah-gah-ba!" she babbled solemnly.

"Ba-ah-gah-ba to you too," replied Fíli in an equally serious tone.

Lula screwed up her nose. "Be-bah-me-ack-baz-ka!"

"Moo-moo-vah-rick-da-sloop," replied Fíli, trying not to laugh. It had been so long since he had talked nonsense to a baby.

The baby stared at him for a long moment, and then her eyes creased at the corners and she giggled, her head lolling back. "Ah ba ga!"

Grinning, Fíli looked back at Tûra. "A wise child, clearly."

Tûra laughed, and Lula began to squirm. "A restless child perhaps. That is the only con now, to the private forge. She is beginning to want to crawl everywhere, and get out and about all of the time."

"Oh, no," tutted Fíli, shaking his head at Lula. "It's a hard life you live, little one." He turned his gaze back to her mother. "What is it that you do?"

"I am a jeweller," she said, smiling a little sadly. "Not that many people are buying now, of course. I understand it. It does not make sense to be buying jewels and trinkets in such a time. It's started to feel a little useless to even craft, but I cannot simply sit here and do nothing. Do you… do you know what I mean?"

His hand gave a twang of pain, and Fíli glanced over his shoulder at the work he had left on the bench. "Yes," he said quietly. "I do know what you mean." He swallowed, and cleared his throat. "So – when did you leave the Iron Hills?"

"Ah, what was it, Lula? About four, five months ago? We needed a change of pace. Something a little different. An orc army arriving a month after we did was not quite what we had in mind, but oh well."

"It's hardly the ideal welcoming gift, no," said Fíli dryly, and Tûra laughed.

"No, not exactly. But it is what it is, and we are here now, so we've been trying to do what we can to make the most of it."

Fíli smiled. "Good for you. But it must be hard – leaving your family and friends and starting new somewhere else is never easy, even without an army besieging the place."

Tûra shrugged slightly. "I would not call it easy, but we are managing as well as anyone else. I don't have much in the way of family – my parents died when I was very small. I miss my friends, it is true, but we write. The ravens can still safely leave the mountain, as it stands."

"Aye, I hope it may continue," murmured Fíli, his heart sinking. He hoped that their arrival would not stop the birds from flying.

It had not escaped Fíli's notice that she did not mention a husband, but he did not ask. It was not his business, and he did not want to bring up painful memories if she had been recently widowed or separated. Instead, he said, "I hope it hasn't been too difficult to make friends here?"

Tûra smiled wearily. "Everyone has been most kind. What of you, may I ask? When did you come to Erebor?"

Fíli paused, his suspicions validated. This woman had no idea who he was. Not that she should, of course, if she had never seen him – but it made a refreshing change to speak to a stranger without drowning in etiquette. He smiled. "Oh, two decades ago, now. My family were some of the first to move to the mountain – and by Durin, was it not a tip when we arrived! Dust and dragon dung everywhere."

Tûra laughed, her eyes sparkling even as her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Oh, I can imagine! I cannot lie, I'm not sad that I missed that. Where did you live before?"

"The Blue Mountains," said Fíli. "Have you ever been?" When she shook her head, he smiled again. "It's a beautiful part of the world. Erebor has long been my home, but Ered Luin has a special place in my heart. There are lakes there in the mountains that freeze over in the winter, with ice so clear that you can see the fish and the water-flowers beneath it as you skate."

"That is something I would love to see," breathed Tûra. "We have no such marvels in the Iron Hills."

"Yet they have their own charm," pointed out Fíli, and Tûra tilted her head slightly.

"You are well travelled," she commented.

Too well travelled, though Fíli grimly, but he squashed such thoughts to the very back of his mind. "Aye, that's a fair thing to say."

"I would love to travel," mused Tûra, and on her back Lula began to squirm again. "I've always been too busy. I-"

Lula let out an indignant shriek, and flung her head back and forth, and Fíli smiled sympathetically. "It's no fun being stuck like that, is it? If you would like, she may sit in my lap. That might be a little better. "

Tûra glanced at the wheel on the workbench. "Are you sure? I am keeping you from your work as it is…"

Fíli's own gaze was drawn over his shoulder, and he sighed. Ehren was right – it would be weeks before Kíli could use it anyway. He had time. "Of course, I'm very sure!" He held out his hands, and after a moment's hesitation, Tûra set down her tools and unstrapped the sling, passing the baby to Fíli. Lula flapped her arms at her sides like a bird trying to take flight and giggled, kicking out with chubby little legs. "There we go," murmured Fíli, jogging the child up and down until she shrieked with laughter. "That's better, hey? This way Ama can get some work done while we chat, if she would like to."

Tûra beamed, and pulled a small purse from her sack, leading Fíli and the baby to a nearby bench. They sat down, and Lula began to study the beads in Fíli's moustache, as her mother began to string beads of her own onto a bracelet.

"So," asked Tûra, her smile growing stronger. "If indeed you are happy to chat - where is the most dangerous place you have been?"

* * *

Despite the fact that he was blindfolded, Bróin rather enjoyed the company of the rangers.

Now that they were no longer prisoners, the tattered remains of the fellowship found that they were treated rather well, and the Rangers shared what news they had heard of the war, and other lands. They also shared merrier stories – anecdotes about life and love and even lice that made Bróin giggle like a six-year-old girl, or guffaw with laughter so strong it almost winded him.

Perhaps it was just because he had had so little cause to laugh for so long.

To share funny stories with friendly strangers seemed such a luxury. And the strangers did seem to be friendly – a man had his hands on Bróin's shoulders, and guided him carefully over the uneven ground. Toothy had been far from happy about having his eyes covered, but with Nelly on his back and Faramir holding a gentle grip on his reins, the warg soon calmed down. After an hour or so of walking blind, Bróin felt himself enter a cave, and they halted. A few moments later, the blindfolds were removed, and he blinked against the soft but sudden light. They were in a tall, thin chamber – one that had clearly been being used by the men for some time now. There were many other rangers bustling to and fro, casting curious and sometimes suspicious glances at the dwobbits, but never approaching them. Even Toothy was regarded with nothing more than cautious interest.

"Come," said Faramir, relinquishing Toothy's lead to Bróin. "I will show you a place where you might get some rest, and I will have provisions collected for you. I must catch up with my men." He gave a short bow and left, but he returned shortly afterwards with a couple of younger rangers, who passed out bowls of hot broth, and tankards of ale. Moreover, he also brought with him two sets of simple undershirts and tunics, and two pairs of green-grey trousers that had quite clearly had their ends chopped off.

"They will not be flattering, but I doubt it is with your sense of style that you will defeat Mordor," said Faramir, passing the bundles to Nelly and Bróin.

"Damn," sighed Nelly, even as her eyes shone. "There goes plan 'a.'"

Though they were far too big, the clothes of the rangers were remarkably comfortable, and Faramir helped them reduce the flapping of excess fabric by lightly winding some strong cord around their forearms, wrists, and ankles, and as they settled in for the night, Nelly took a needle and thread to her own new clothes to alter them further.

"It seems our time together will be shorter than I might have hoped," said Faramir, sitting down with a heavy sigh. "Osgiliath is under attack, and we must aid them. We can wait only for the other rangers – we must leave at dawn tomorrow."

Bróin's stomach coiled uncomfortably, and Frodo gave a solemn nod. "Of course, you must be with your people. We will not overstay our welcome."

Faramir smiled sadly. "Would that we had met in kinder times, Frodo Baggins."

"We did," said Nelly softly, a fond smile on her face. "Remember? You were four, and it was Thorin's coronation, and we rode on track-cars and stuffed our faces full on cinnamon buns."

Faramir closed his eyes, but his smile grew a little stronger. "I remember. Boromir helped you set off a firework within the mountain. Mother gave him such a talking to when we got home…"

Conversation spilled out between them, easy as the flow of water, gentle as the stroke of a feather. Bróin's heart felt very warm, buffeted by fond memories and friendly faces, and when at last the time came to sleep, he felt better than he had since Lothlórien.

And then he was woken by a screeching wail.

He flung himself upright, and stars span before his eyes, and beside him Nelly drew her knife, and Sam leapt to his feet.

"Where's Frodo?"

Frantically, Bróin rubbed at his eyes, and as his vision cleared he saw that Frodo's bedroll was empty, and his pack was abandoned at the side. With a gasp of horror, he stumbled to his feet, and beside him, Toothy began to growl. Still, someone was howling – a gargling, choking wail, and it sounded familiar.

Bróin reached out, fumbling with Toothy's halter in case the warg decided to pounce, but he wondered if he should stop him. Had they been betrayed? After all his kind words and soft murmured memories, had Faramir stabbed them in the back?

"That sounds like Gollum, doesn't it?" said Nelly, and Bróin could tell that she was clenching her jaw.

Sam darted towards the doorway, but as he did the wailing spluttered to a halt, and a figure loomed in the door with flaming torch in hand.

"Rion," said Sam, threat dripping from his voice. "Where's Frodo? What's going on?"

The ranger stared at his hand and raised her eyebrow. "Lower your weapon, Master Gamgee."

"Oh, I don't think so," snarled Sam, and Bróin adjusted his grip on Toothy's reins as the warg stood up. "Where is Frodo?"

"Frodo is fine," said Rion, her eyes narrowed and her voice as sharp as the blade she drew from her belt. "Get your warg on the floor and sheath your sword. Now."

Toothy bared his teeth and Bróin shifted his feet into a fighting position, feeling his heart pump blood and adrenalin through his body as he prepared to fight, but he truly did not want to. The Rangers of Ithilien had been kind to them, had given them food and clothes and shelter and hope.

If it had all been a trap, if Faramir had turned against them…

His throat tightened at the very thought of it.

Sam shook his head, his eyes flashing. "If you don't tell us what's going on, you'll regret it."

"Do not threaten me, halfling," snapped Rion. "It is the shelter of my people you are standing in and our food in your stomach."

"And is it your lord who has betrayed us?" asked Nelly. "Because that is what it looks like."

"Lord Faramir would never betray his word, nor those he deems faithful," insisted Rion, disgust on her face.

"Then tell us what is going on, and why it is not that, and we will lower our weapons," said Nelly, an impressive calm in her voice. Despite everything, Bróin felt a swell of pride.

"Your Gollum friend was spotted swimming in the Forbidden Pool," replied Rion. "The penalty for this is death. Lord Faramir woke Frodo to ask if he thought the creature worthy of being spared, and they went to retrieve him. Gollum thought little of our conditions for his survival. He is being interrogated now, and Frodo is with him."

Bróin stared at the Ranger. "That… seems plausible."

"Well it's the truth. The truth usually is. Will you put your weapons down now?"

Sam took a step back, and slid his sword into the sheath on his belt, and Rion mirrored the movements. Nelly stowed away her knife, and Bróin turned to Toothy, putting his hand behind the warg's ear and scratching it gently.

"It's alright, boy," he murmured. "Good boy, it's safe now. Good boy, Toothy, down now."

With one more growl, Toothy slowly sat, and then slid his paws out to lie down, his eyes focused on Rion. Bróin sat down beside him and sighed.

They waited in heavy, awkward silence, until after a while they heard footsteps, and Faramir stepped past Rion into the chamber. Frodo was behind him, hand in hand with Gollum, who looked far more pathetic than usual, with tears and snot dribbling down his face. Bróin noticed a loop of rope tied around his wrist, and when Bróin followed it, he saw that it was tied to Frodo's belt. Frodo gave a tired smile.

"It's alright," he murmured. "Everything's alright. Just a misunderstanding."

"Cruel men make nice master tie poor Sméagol," whimpered Sméagol. "Poor Sméagol."

"They wouldn't have bound you if you hadn't tried to run," said Frodo sternly. "But it won't be for long. In the morning we'll be on our way, and you'll be free to run as far as you choose. Come, let's get a little sleep, while we still can."

Sniffling and snivelling, Sméagol glared, but gave no reply. Frodo laid down on his bedroll, and one by one, the others followed slowly followed suit, as Faramir and Rion left the room, and took the torchlight with them. Toothy continued to growl, his hackles raised, but slowly, Bróin was able to coax him down.

Sleep evaded Bróin for the rest of the night. The look on Sméagol's face had been murderous, and every time that Bróin began to drift away, the sound of shifting blankets or feet on stone would shock him back to consciousness, or in the silence his skin would begin to prickle, and he could all but feel long, clammy fingers closing around his throat.

It was a great relief when Faramir entered the chamber once more, and told them that the time had come to leave. At one stage, they had to be blindfolded again, and Sméagol kicked up such a fuss that Toothy snarled at him, which inevitably led to more hysterics from Gollum until Frodo encouraged the men to cover his own eyes, and Sam's.

"They mean no harm," he said firmly, and with a final whine, Sméagol acquiesced. It was only for half an hour or so that they were blinded, but Bróin did not enjoy it so much this time. It was quieter, and things were far more tense. They walked on with the rangers at a brisk pace which ended only at a small, winding path leading away from the road, where Faramir halted. "You are sure this is your road?"

"What other choice do we have?" said Frodo, slicing his knife through the rope that bound him to Sméagol, who sprang into the bushes like a rabid rabbit. "We must go to Mordor, and this is the only way."

"Well, I do not like it," said Faramir, shaking his head and staring at Sméagol. "Cirith Ungol has a dark reputation. But I wish you all the luck in the world. May we meet again, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, Pimpernel Took, and Bróin son of Bombur."

They all bowed, and Bróin felt a lump in his throat. He had only just met Boromir's brother, but leaving him now felt wrong. He was afraid to leave – afraid to lose the protection of the rangers, and afraid that further harm would befall these men in the battle that awaited them. But he smiled, and said, "Pop into Erebor, if you're ever passing. Bilbo always has tea on for five."

Faramir smiled, and bowed. "It would be a great honour." But then the man's eyes hardened, and fell onto Gollum. "May death find you quickly, if you bring them to harm." With a sad sigh, he raised his eyes back to the others. "Farewell."

And as they walked away from the rangers, Toothy gave a sad howl.

* * *

Trying not to tut to himself like an old maid, Bilbo scurried down the long hall towards the Royal Forges. Ten and a half hours, Fíli had been there, by the account of the guards who saw him arrive at four in the morning. The morning! The thought of voluntarily waking at such an hour was more than enough to make Bilbo yawn, but it was now gone two in the afternoon, and high time that Fíli come out, sit down, and have a proper meal. Though Thorin had sent Ehren to check on Fíli – a rather unfair move, in Bilbo's mind, given that poor old Ehren had also just returned the night before – Bilbo doubted that the young dwarf would be able to coax the stubborn prince from his solitude. Or from whatever project was so important for him to work on.

So, Bilbo had torn himself away from Kíli's side, and gone traipsing through Erebor in search of the son who usually caused the least trouble. He had no guard himself, though he wore his sword on his belt. It was not far, and he had no intention of being gone long.

More importantly, he had no doubt that Fíli would need to talk about feelings. Dwarves, particularly the male ones, had a tendency to be bad at such discussions, and the last thing that Bilbo wanted to do was add an audience.

But as he approached the Royal Forges, he saw a very odd audience indeed. Ehren was leaning against the door, his ear pressed up against it, and a large basket on his hip. Bilbo could smell a couple of lukewarm pies, and he could also see a small healing kit, and he narrowed his eyes.

He strode right up behind Ehren without making a sound, and then spoke calmly. "And what do you think you are doing, Ehren, son of Joren?"

Swearing, Ehren leapt half a foot into the air, spinning around to grin at Bilbo. "Damn, Bilbo, you scared me!"

"And also asked you a question," said Bilbo pointedly. "What are you doing?"

Ehren's grin grew very wide indeed. "Fíli's talking to a girl."

Bilbo frowned. "A girl? Who?"

Ehren shrugged, still grinning as though he had discovered his own gold mine. "No idea. I went to grab some food and when I came back they were chatting away."

"And you decided that the best thing to do would be to eavesdrop on them?"

Ehren looked utterly unrepentant. "I'm his bodyguard. I had to stick around. And Bilbo, it's _Fíli_ , talking to a _girl_!"

"I don't see what's so unheard of about that," protested Bilbo, folding his arms over his chest and fixing Ehren with his most severe 'father face.' "Fíli will talk to anyone, boy, girl or anything in between."

"But they've been talking for _ages_!"

"You are fishing, Ehren, and behaving worse than a tween hobbit lass," said Bilbo. "Now, stop violating Fíli's privacy and – wait, is that a healing kit? Why do you have a healing kit?"

"Oh, Fíli burnt his hand."

"And you've just been standing here eavesdropping!" cried Bilbo, his voice rising near a shriek.

For the first time, doubt flickered into Ehren's eyes, and his smile faded. "It's not a bad burn-"

"Give me that!" demanded Bilbo, and Ehren offered the basket quickly. "How long have you been out here – these pies are cold as the Sackville-Bagginses! Call yourself a body-guard! I am going to have a word with your mother."

Ehren went bright pink, finally looking suitably abashed. "Yes Bilbo. Sorry Bilbo."

Bilbo shook his head and sighed. "Go home, Ehren."

"But I wanted to see-"

"Go home," said Bilbo sternly, though he gave a small smile and squeezed Ehren's arm. "You're off duty now anyway. I say so."

Bilbo knocked twice on the door to the forge and opened it without waiting for an answer. Fíli was sitting on the bench by one of the forges with a woman beside him – a pretty dwarven lass with a shock of dark hair and deep brown eyes – and on Fíli's lap was a baby. The woman rose and curtseyed deeply. "My lord!"

"Good afternoon," said Bilbo, bowing his head. "Forgive the intrusion, I am Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

The woman's eyes widened, and she looked from Bilbo to Fíli. "Lord – Lord Baggins, sir?"

"Yes, that's me. Now, I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, but Ehren says you have been burnt, Fíli."

Fíli glanced down at his hand, which was submerged in a bucket of water, and Tûra's eyes widened. "Fíli? You – my lord, are you the prince?"

Bilbo raised his eyebrows slightly at Fíli. He knew that it was not the first time that his son failed to introduce himself properly when trying to get to know a new friend – particularly friends of the female variety. It was a shame to think it necessary, but then Bilbo had seen the way that some changed their behaviour in the face of royalty, and he knew it had cost Fíli more than one friendship in the past. He had seen the way it ground against Fíli to have friends refer to him by title.

Fíli gave a small nod, and smiled at her. "I am. But please, call me Fíli."

"I'm awfully sorry about his manners," said Bilbo, grinning at the girl. "He does know it's best to actually introduce yourself…"

"How is Kíli?" Fíli asked softly, and Bilbo smiled.

"Glad to be home." He did not add 'worried about you' in front of Fíli's new friend. That would be cruel. "But he has a lot on his mind."

Fíli nodded slowly. "Don't we all…" he raised his eyes towards Bilbo. "I should go to him." He turned to face Tûra, standing to give a short bow. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Tûra, daughter of Ovie. And you, too, Lula." He poked the baby's nose gently, and passed her back to her mother, who curtseyed low.

"It was an honour, my lord. Fíli."

Lula gave a little cry, and held out her hand towards Fíli, who smiled, and kissed it gently. "Be good for your Ama, now. I hope to see you both soon."

"You will," said Tûra, her cheeks blazing red. "As long as you wish to."

"I do," said Fíli solemnly, and Bilbo rather wished that he had stepped outside. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

"Indeed, it was lovely to meet you, Lady Tûra. Please, pop around for tea if the fancy takes you, we take it every day at five o'clock," he said, giving a little bow of his own, and again Tûra curtseyed.

"It was a great honour, Lord Baggins."

Fíli smiled once more, and then strode towards the door, leaving Bilbo to scurry along in his wake. It seemed that Ehren had taken Bilbo's order seriously, for the corridor was empty when they entered it.

"Well," said Bilbo, when Fíli failed to speak. "She was a nice girl."

Fíli nodded absently.

"Shame she likes me better," said Bilbo casually, and Fíli frowned at him. "It was a 'great' honour meeting me. You were just an honour."

Fíli grinned. "Shut up, Bilbo."

"Now, that's no way to talk to your father," scolded Bilbo, and Fíli's face softened.

"How is Kíli? Really?"

"Worried about you. Worried about Frodo. Worried about everyone under the sun, I think." Bilbo sighed, and put an arm around Fíli's shoulders. "He'll be alright, you know. He'll be absolutely fine."

Fíli sighed heavily, his gaze dropping to the floor. He did not say anything, but he rested his head on Bilbo's shoulder, and they walked like that all the way home.

* * *

Merry's whole body trembled. He could not help it, could not stop it. He could only stand there, on the cold, stone floor of the stables, watching as Gandalf lifted Pippin onto the back of a great, white horse. Watching as Gandalf prepared to take his cousin away from him. Gimli stood at one side, and Boromir at his other, but they did nothing to stop the wizard. No one did.

No one could.

Pippin had to get out of there, and Minas Tirith had to be warned.

And no one alive had a horse that could keep up with Gandalf's.

So Shadowfax and Gandalf had to whisk Pippin away.

And Merry could not come.

There were unshed tears burning in his throat and searing across the back of his eyes, but he bit them back as best he could. Pippin did not need to see him cry.

As if reading Merry's thoughts, the younger hobbit looked down, and frowned.

"Merry?"

Merry nodded. He did not trust himself to speak.

Pippin swallowed. "You're… you're coming too, aren't you?"

Merry gave a shallow laugh, and slowly shook his head. "You never do listen, do you, Pippin?"

Pippin went very pale, and Merry battled the urge to leap up and drag his cousin down into his arms. His arms could not keep Pippin safe. Not anymore.  
"Merry-"

"Remember," said Gandalf sharply, mounting the horse himself. "Those in the mountains must fight."

"You'll be alright, Pippin." Merry's voice felt very small and faraway, and Pippin's eyes widened in horror.

"Go, Shadowfax," murmured the wizard. "And show us the meaning of haste!"

"Merry!"

Pippin's cry struck Merry in the heart, and the horse sprang forward, shooting from the stable like an arrow from a bow. Merry felt that arrow embed deep in his chest, felt Pippin's absence so suddenly and absolutely that it took the strength from his knees. Vaguely, as if in a dream, he felt Gimli's hand on his arm, but as the dust began to settle Merry could not take any more, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He heard cries of his name, heard people give chase, but he did not stop. He tore through Edoras and flung himself up the stairs to its wall, scrambling with hands and feet like a child until he reached the top. Like a child, he was too small to see over most of the wall, but he quickly found a lower section and threw himself against it.

Already, Gandalf and Shadowfax and Pippin were the size of toys, shrinking into the horizon, and with a lump in his throat, Merry silently accepted that it was true – even Denahi would struggle to keep up with such a horse. He felt a hand on his back, and another on his shoulder, and he blinked back tears, resting his chin on the wooden fence.

"He's never been away from me before," he murmured. "Not… not since Mirkwood."

He felt Gimli shiver beside him, and the hand on his shoulder tightened almost painfully. The hand on his back was softer.

"Gandalf is with him," said Aragorn. "He will not let any harm befall Pippin. And if I have learnt anything from these adventures, it is that hobbits are a most hardy folk."

Gimli snorted. "Fool hardy, maybe."

A small smile tugged at Merry's cheeks. "Well, he is a Took."

"He will be alright, Merry," said Boromir. "Minas Tirith may not be a fortress of the strength of Erebor, but my father is a good leader, and he is no stranger to tactics of war. When Gandalf delivers these tidings, my father will secure the city, and the safety of everyone inside it. You will see Pippin again."

Merry said nothing. He knew that, despite all of Boromir's promises and Aragorn's reassurances, no one could be sure of anything anymore. The white dot of Shadowfax vanished beneath a hill, and Merry closed his eyes. There was a hollow sort of desolation in his chest, a feeling of resigned loneliness. It was like he was missing a limb.

A rippled of startled murmurs spread out behind him, and then a warm, wet nose nuzzled against his palm, and Merry tore his eyes away from the skyline to look at Denahi.

"Good boy," he murmured, resting his forehead on the wolf's, and pretending that he was not crying. "Good boy."

Denahi had caused quite the stir in Edoras. The men watched him with wary eyes, keeping their hands on their weapons as they passed, and the women hurried away and shut their doors at the very sight of him. Funnily enough, the horses did not seem to mind him too much, and neither did the children that remained in the city. Ever since Merry and Pippin arrived and promised that he was friendly, the youngest citizens of Edoras had wanted nothing more than to pet Denahi, and throw their balls his way, though the adults would always usher them away.

Merry understood why Théoden had so vehemently denied his son's request for a wolf so many years ago on that diplomatic mission to Erebor. But then Merry remembered that Théoden's son was dead – that the golden haired boy he had laughed with and played with had been cut down by orcs.

Alongside so many others.

Merry took a deep breath, and forced his head to rise. Denahi licked his chin, and Merry turned to the others. "What do we do now?"

Aragorn looked at Boromir, who sighed. "We wait. When Gondor calls for aid, Rohan will answer, and we will be among them."

"We wait?"

"Yes."

Merry folded his arms across his chest. "Why should we wait? We should muster an army, march for Gondor! It makes no sense just sitting around and waiting for the enemy to make a move!"

"Mustering an army takes time, Merry," explained Aragorn, an infuriating level of patience in his voice. "Rohan is not like Erebor – its people are spread across vast lands, and its soldiers and spread amongst them. And Théoden has not yet decided if he _will_ muster an army and ride to war. He must do what he thinks is right for his people. He may deem that defence is a better strategy – if he rides forth with his army, he leaves the women and children of his lands defenceless, and vulnerable. It is not a simple choice, Merry."

"But we will ride for Minas Tirith, won't we?" insisted Merry, meeting the eyes of Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli in turn. "Whether or not Rohan is with us, we have to do something!"

Boromir sighed heavily. "I do not think that Théoden will forsake Gondor, but if he feels it is necessary to do so, I will ride with you. But first, we must wait."

Gimli narrowed his eyes and Boromir, and then turned to Merry, grabbing his shoulder roughly and then pointing his finger in the hobbit's face. "If you even think about sneaking off to war without me, I will kick your sorry hobbit backside so hard that you fly home to Erebor, you hear me?"

Merry smiled a little. "I hear you, Gimli."

"Good. Now, let's find our if the elf's awake yet. He's been napping long enough! And where's Eómer? I want to know where these men keep their ale…"

* * *

Osgiliath was burning. It was less than a day since they had bidden farewell to Frodo Baggins and his party, and despite herself, Rion almost missed them. Though the tale of their adventures had been far from pleasant, their anecdotes had been rather amusing – she could not remember the last time she had seen Faramir or Madril smile, but the strange little party had coaxed laughs from them both. It had almost been like having a break from the war.

But that respite was over. When night had fallen, they had seen the fires of Osgiliath for the first time, and Faramir had been forced into the hardest decision Rion had ever seen the young lord make. Rion understood the choice that he had made, as did Madril – all the men understood – but she did not think that understanding much comforted Faramir.

Not when he had to leave them behind.

For Faramir had to report to Denethor – news of the Ring of Power and of the armies marching through Ithilien to the aid of Mordor had to get to Minas Tirith. He would almost be at the city by now – he had taken their fastest horse, and left Rion and Madril to lead their troops to Osgiliath as reinforcements.

But as the sun bled over the horizon to drag in the day, and the rangers entered into the Western Side of the city, Rion feared they were too late. Smoke was rising from the city on the Eastern Bank, and she knew that their last defences there had fallen.

The last bridge had also been destroyed, though by whom, she could not tell. They slipped quickly and silently through empty streets, and the city around them made no sound. There was nothing but the soft lapping of the water on the bank when they drew close to the river. It was as though Osgiliath had been taken by ghosts.

Perhaps they really were too late.

The thought opened a deep well of fear inside Rion, and her dread grew with every dusty step that she took. It was stronger than the stench of death, and the brittle silence around them, and the searing, ceaseless fog. The fear was stronger than everything – everything except the desire to get their people away from such a place.

Raising a finger to her lips, she led them deeper into the city, expecting any second to come across the corpses of their kin, until they reached what had once been the city hall. More recently, it had been a base of war. She glanced at Madril, who nodded, and then she pushed open the door.

At once a sword was thrust towards her face, but then came a gasp. "Master Rion, sir!" The sword fell away, and a young soldier bowed before her. Dirt and blood was smeared over his armour, and behind him in the great hall were no more than a hundred warriors.

"Where are the others?" asked Madril, and the soldier shook his head.

"We are all that is left. How many are you?"

"Fifty," replied Rion tightly. She did not need to glance at Madril to know what he was thinking.

One hundred and fifty men could not hold Osgiliath.

She sent in the rest of the Rangers, and as they distributed food and news to the other soldiers, Madril pulled Rion aside.

"This is dire, lad," he said in a low voice. "We cannot hold the city – not like this. We will be overrun in but one battle."

"Yes, but we do not have the authority to issue a retreat," she murmured back. "Lord Denethor commands that the city defences must hold, so they must hold. Neither you nor I are commander, Madril."

"Faramir will stop this," said Madril at once. "None here doubt his authority to."

Rion nodded. "So we must get word to Faramir."

"And get word back," said Madril sombrely. "Reinforcements are worthless, unless they are in their hundreds. The order _must_ be given for retreat, or we are all dead where we stand."

"And if possible, the signal should be sent from afar," agreed Rion. "Anyone who rides to Osgiliath now is doing nothing short of suicide."

"Agreed," said Rion. She took a deep breath. "It cannot be us that rides out, Madril. If we are to give this order, we must await doom with the others who remain."

"I quite agree," said Madril, a sad smile on his face – a face that looked two decades older than its years. "You are a fine soldier, Rion."

"As are you, my friend."

As the sun rose high towards noon, Rion watched from a window the young soldier they had selected ride towards Minas Tirith as though the devil was on his back. She no longer had any hope or true faith for this fight, but she did trust in Faramir, and she trusted his choices.

She had no idea that at that moment, Lord Denethor of Gondor was spitting bitter words to his son, in a twisted hope that Faramir, Captain of Gondor, would choose death.

 **Well, I hope you liked that chapter, and that the sheer weight of it made up a little for the wait! Please do let me know what you thought, I absolutely love hearing from you guys!**

 **Now it's the new year, my schedule has SIGNIFICANTLY calmed down, so I will do my best to get up to weekly updates. Hopefully, they'll even be on time.**

 **Until next time, take care, and thank you for reading!**


	78. Chapter 78: The Steward of Gondor

**Hi there! Again I must apologise for the delay - unseen and very difficult family circumstances have made this a rather awful fortnight for me, and as such this chapter is a whole section smaller and a whole week later than I would have liked it to be. I hope that you enjoy it nevertheless, and that you can forgive my dreaded typos.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Steward of Gondor**

Denethor had not even let him come into the city. He had met Faramir at the gate, demanded an explanation as to why Osgiliath burned. Why Faramir could not hold the river-side city from Ithilien, why he could not have stopped the armies marching into Mordor.

It felt like a poor excuse to say there were too few men to fight, but it was truth, and he told it. And, despite the small, child-like voice in the back of his head that begged him to leave out talk of Frodo, he told his father everything.

And he had watched Denethor's face grow darker and colder, watched the steely fury that he had come to recognise cloud his father's gaze. It was a look reserved for Faramir. His love was reserved for Boromir.

Now, Faramir waited alone in a courtyard of stone, staring at the man who had raised him glare with a hatred once reserved for Mordor. Before, Faramir could stand it – he had Boromir, at least, to care for him, Boromir to confide in, and to seek advice from, and take shelter with. But Boromir was gone.

"You…" Denethor's voice trembled with fury, and Faramir fought against the desire to close his eyes. "You treacherous fool!"

"I had no intentions of treachery, father," he said softly. "I merely had to do what I believed to be right."

"What you – you sent the Ring of Power to Mordor, in the hands of a damned halfling!" growled Denethor. "It should have been brought here, to the citadel, to be kept safe. Not to be used – except in our most desperate need…"

Faramir shook his head. "We could not wield it, and the Eye of Mordor is already on Minas Tirith."

"What would you know of this matter?" spat Denethor, his fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, Faramir almost thought his father was going to strike him. "Boromir would have brought me the ring."

"No," said Faramir, as the whip lash of his brother's name cracked across his heart. "Boromir would not have brought you the ring. If he had succeeded in taking it, he would have fallen, and when he returned, you would not know your own son."

"Lies!" A pair of birds nesting in the battlements took flight at the steward's shout. "Boromir was loyal to me – he was not some wizard's pupil! Boromir would have held Osgiliath!"

Realisation struck Faramir like a rock between the eyes, and the air flew out of his lungs. "You wish now that Boromir had lived, and I had died in his stead?"

Denethor did not hesitate. "Yes. I wish that."

For a moment, Faramir could not speak. He could not even move. He had known of his father's preference for years, but to hear it spoken aloud, to know that his father would genuinely prefer for him to have _died…_

He had not realised that hearing those words aloud would drive pain so deeply into his chest that he could feel it boring out through his back.

Gathering himself as best he could, Faramir took a deep breath. "Since you are robbed of Boromir, what would you have me do in his stead?"

A frantic knocking at the door interrupted any words that Denethor might have said, and he scowled. "What is it? I demanded we be undisturbed!"

The door to the courtyard opened, and a young soldier stumbled in. Faramir recognised him from the battalion at Osgiliath, though he could not remember the lad's name. His arm was in a brace, and bound tightly to his chest, and there was desperation wrought into every part of his ashen face.

"My lord, my lords, forgive me!" he gasped. "But I have ridden and run as fast as I am able – Osgiliath is overrun – the river is lost! Please, the order must be given to retreat!"

Faramir looked to his father, and his heart cringed further beneath the steely glare that met him.

"Only cowards retreat," snarled Denethor, his eyes holding Faramir's with unwavering intensity. "And the men of Gondor are not cowards – or at least they were not when Boromir was alive. Is there none now with the courage to reclaim the river?"

A great feeling of emptiness rose up within Faramir, an abyss with a pull so strong that he had no chance but to fall to it. Denethor did not care if the forces in Osgiliath were wiped out – not if it made a statement.

And he did not care if Faramir were to die.

He had lost Boromir, and still, he did not care if Faramir lived or died.

After all that he had seen, all that he had lost, Faramir was not sure if he cared, either.

"I will go," he said softly. "I will hold Osgiliath, as well as I can."

He heard a gasp of horror leave the messenger, but the soldier did not speak. The shadow of a smile lit in Denethor's eyes.

"Yes. I think that is right," he said.

With a bow, Faramir turned, and begged the tears away from his eyes. He had reached the door when his father spoke.

"Faramir."

He turned, and saw his father staring back at him, with the gravest expression that Faramir had ever seen.

"If you do not reclaim the river, do not come back."

* * *

Minas Tirith was not as impressive as Pippin had imagined it. It was big, yes, and much bigger than he thought it would be, but apart from that, he had expected a little more. Yes, it was beautiful, and its statues and decorations were lovely to look at, but he had expected to see sparkling gems embedded into the walls, or silver running through the veins of the white stone of the city, or great stone gates carven with intricate details smaller than his fingernails. From what Boromir had told him, he had thought that the sight of the city would rob him of his breath or his words, but it did not.

Or maybe, _maybe_ , it was not that he was unimpressed.

If he was completely honest with himself, Pippin knew that he was impressed. He had never imagined that towers could climb so high, that a city could so beautifully cling to a mountain instead of being carved inside it. He had never seen so big an outside city in his life.

He had just been hoping that Minas Tirith would look a little more like Erebor.

Pippin had never really felt homesickness like Bilbo or Kíli or Frodo before – he was always happy where he was, with a fond remembrance of the other side of the world, but now he wished to be home so badly that it ached. He wanted to be warm and safe in Erebor's cosy darkness, to know that the walls were around him and that he would be alright.

To know that his dwarves were there, and would protect him.

To know that he could protect them, too. If he ever managed to make a use of himself.

He hung his head, and sighed. They were winding up the roads towards the citadel, apparently, but he did not care much. It was the wrong citadel, anyway.

"Are you alright?" asked Gandalf, slowing Shadowfax slightly. "I thought you would be more curious, Peregrin Took."

Pippin shrugged. "I'm fine."

Gandalf chuckled beneath his breath. "Ah, the most told lie in the world. I will not push you, Pippin. But it would do for you to have your wits about you, now. We are approaching the halls of the steward. Denethor is less affable than his sons, and it would not be wise to mention Aragorn. Or Frodo, or the Ring – in fact, do just leave the talking to me, I think."

Pippin nodded. A piece of baggage again, it seemed.

 _"I remember when I first met old Mr Baggins," crowed Dwalin, a grin on his face and an ale in his hand. It was the fifth impromptu speech during Dis and Bilbo's wedding, but they were all very fun, so for once, Pippin did not mind. "When I first stepped foot in Bag End, I thought Gandalf'd lost his mind! More of a burden than a burglar, I thought, and I'd never been so wrong in my whole life."_

That day, Pippin had been so proud to be a hobbit. If Dwalin could see him now…

Shadowfax stopped, and Pippin looked up. They had reached some great, stone doors, but though they were decorated, they had nothing on the doors of Erebor. At least in Pippin's opinion.

"You there, lad!" said Gandalf, beckoning a nearby guard as he dismounted. "Take my friend here to the stables, see to it he gets a good feed and drink. But take care with him – Shadowfax is a proud creature, and will not be bullied or patronised. Pippin, you're coming with me." With that, the wizard lifted Pippin off the horse as though he was nothing more than a child, and then he handed the reins to the young guard. The doors swung open, but not onto a hall, as Pippin had expected. Instead, he found himself following Gandalf into a large, stone courtyard, built around a white tree.

A white tree that looked very, very dead.

"Gandalf…" he whispered. "Gandalf, that's it! That's the tree I saw!"

"Yes," said Gandalf heavily. "The White Tree of Gondor. The tree of kings"

"Is it dead?"

Gandalf simply gave Pippin a sad smile, and continued to stride across the courtyard. They reached yet another pair of doors, and Pippin bit back the urge to ask, 'Are we there yet?"

These doors, too, opened before them, and Pippin could have sworn he felt a rush of cold air escape into the outside. He shivered. The hall before him was dark, but not in the way of Erebor. Instead it was a cold dark, the dark that was caused by a veil of shadows from half-covered windows, a dark that was dim, and glum, and threatening.

At the end of the hall, was a great, empty throne, and to its right was a smaller throne. This throne, however, was occupied.

Pippin did not recognise the man he knew to be Denethor from his memories. He had only been a toddler when they last met, and there was nothing about him that five year old Pippin had thought worth remembering. Pippin had imagined him to be an older, greyer version of Boromir, but that was not the case. Denethor did not look much like Boromir at all. It was his scowl that set them apart the most, a cold, angry look that rather made Pippin want to hide behind Gandalf.

The wizard, however, did not seem the least bit abashed. He strode straight down the hall towards the man, and Pippin trotted along behind him

"Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion," said Gandalf. "I come to you with tidings and counsel at this dark time."

"Do you?" said Denethor, his voice a whisper away from a sneer. "Do you, Gandalf the Grey – or is it the White now? I hear that is what you are calling yourself. Counsel, you say. Tidings? What counsel do you think you could give me? What tidings do you think you could bring? Perhaps you come to tell me why my son is dead?"

Pippin looked up at Gandalf in alarm as the wizard stiffened, his eyes growing wide. "Has something happened to Faramir?"

Denethor's face screwed up in anger, and his hands clawed around the arms of his throne. "Faramir? Only if the orcs win the river tonight. Do not plead ignorance with me, wizard! I know that you have come from Rohan, and I know that Boromir is dead."

Pippin frowned, looking up at Gandalf again, but for once, the wizard seemed as stumped as Pippin.

"Boromir?" he said. "Boromir is not dead, my lord Denethor. I saw him not three days ago, and I can assure you he is very much alive."

"Liar!" hissed Denethor, leaning forward as his face lost colour. "Do not lie to me about my _son!_ We received word a week ago from Gríma Wormtongue, on a letter with Théoden's seal!"

"Gríma Wormtongue is currently locked in Isengard with Saruman, his Master," snapped Gandalf. "He is a traitor, and I am not a liar. Boromir was injured, yes, in defence of Master Took here, but his friends found him in time and he survived. As you were receiving news about his apparent 'death', he was fighting in the Battle of Helm's Deep – a battle that we won and that he survived."

Denethor's face burned red, and he stood up slowly from his throne, his entire body shaking with rage, but something he had said earlier came to Pippin's mind, and he found himself interrupting.

"Tonight? What's… what's happening tonight?" Denethor's sharp eyes landed on him, and for a moment, Pippin regretted speaking. But then he found his voice, and he repeated the question. "You said Faramir… something about orcs and rivers?"

Denethor's eyes narrowed, and his lip raised into a sneer. "Faramir is returning to Osgiliath as we speak to hold the river, though his uses are few and I have no doubt it will fall. But Boromir-"

Shock hit Pippin, immediately followed by anger as he realised what this stuffy old lord was saying, and though he tried, he could not bite back his words. "If anything happens to Faramir, Boromir will never forgive you!"

Gandalf stiffened, and flames of fury lit in Denethor's eyes.

"What did you say?" hissed the man, his voice soft and dangerous.

"Pippin-" began Gandalf, but Pippin had started, and he might as well finish it.

"Boromir loves his brother more than anything else in the world," insisted Pippin, unable to believe that Denethor had to have it spelt out for him. "If you give an order, and Faramir dies, Boromir will never, ever forgive you. He will _hate_ you."

"How dare – how _dare_ you say such a thing-" Denethor's voice rose to a roar and he surged forward, his hands reaching towards Pippin's neck, but Gandalf brought his staff down an inch from the steward's face, forcing him abruptly backwards.

"Don't touch my hobbit, Denethor, son of Ecthelion," the wizard rumbled. "He speaks no lie, though he speaks with less tact than a drunken troll. Boromir will not be pleased if he returns to find his brother harmed."

Denethor's face grew redder and redder, until Pippin was sure that he would explode, but instead the man simply spat words at them – bitter and laced with hate. "I will not be spoken to like that in my own halls! If – _if_ Boromir is alive – it does not change your twisted tongue, Gandalf! You claim to come with counsel, but I know what you are planning! You plan to usurp me, you plan to put that Dúnedain street-rat on the throne of Gondor!"

"Street-rat?" cried Pippin indignantly, but Gandalf hit him in the back of the shins with his staff, and he thought that he had probably better be quiet.

"Authority is not given to you to refuse the return of the king," thundered Gandalf, and quite suddenly Pippin wished that he was somewhere – anywhere – else. "You are sitting, waiting for an attack from Mordor – an attack that is swiftly coming? Where are Gondor's armies? You are not alone – you have allies! Your own son rides with the Rohirrim! Light the beacons, and Théoden will answer."

"It is not your right to say what happens to this city!" Denethor's voice rose to a yell, and Pippin winced. He wondered if Denethor would notice if he sidled behind Gandalf, but then he thought of Dwalin again, and dwarfishly – and reluctantly – stood his ground. "I am the steward, Gondor is _mine_ to command, _mine,_ and I shall run my kingdom as I see fit!"

"You are not the king, and the stewardship does not make Gondor your kingdom! Your pride will be the death of your people, and your stubbornness will burn your cities to the ground! Call Faramir back hear – withdraw troops from Osgiliath and call your armies to Minas Tirith. Do it now, or you will be too late."

A sneering smile contorted the man's face, and Pippin gave a shudder. Denethor stepped backwards, and sat down in his small throne, resting his elbow on the armrest as though he had not a care in the world.

"Very well," he said, and his tone made the hair on the back of Pippin's neck stand on end. "I shall do ask you deem fit – if your words are proven true. Show me Boromir – show me my son, and I will call back the troops from Osgiliath. Show me him breathing, and I will light the beacons – prove him to be unharmed and I will call to Rohan with my own lungs. Until then, until I know that my Boromir lives, I will heed no advice from the likes of you."

Gandalf snarled under his breath, but Pippin could make out no words. The wizard turned, his robes nearly batting Pippin in the face, and strode towards the door so quickly that the hobbit had to run to catch up.

"What now?" he asked. "Why doesn't he believe us?"

"Well," muttered Gandalf angrily, "if I were feeling generous, I would say that he is too afraid of new grief."

"And if you weren't feeling generous? Has he lost his mind?"

"His mind? No. Denethor is too smart, too cunning for that. But he has certainly lost his way, and lost sight of sense. Come now, Peregrin Took. I have a job for you."

 **So there we have it. Sorry to those of you hoping to catch up with Erebor, or Frodo - I will do my best to remedy that next week. If you have any feedback for this, and/or any other chapters/aspects of the story, please do let me know. It is truly really motivating and heartwarming to know that people are appreciating my work, especially when life gets a little trickier, and I love trying to include things that you want to see in the story when possible.**

 **I hope that the next chapter will be up next week, and I also hope that if any of you have had a week like I have, or are grieving too, you can take a little comfort from the wise words of Samwise Gamgee:**

 **'"But in the end it's only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass."**

 **And advice from the wonderful Uncle Iroh:**

 **"You will find that if you look for the light, you can often find it. But if you look for the dark, that is all you will ever see."**

 **(I don't know how many, if any of you, have watched the Last Airbender,/Legend of Korra but you don't need to to appreciate the wisdom and wonder of Uncle Iroh.)**

 **Thank you so much for reading, and until next time, take care of yourselves and your loved ones.**


	79. Chapter 79:Between a Rock and Hard Place

**Hey there! Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews and support for for the last chapter – in particular thank you so much to the unnamed Guest who reviewed several chapters and offered such wonderful praise and support. I cannot thank you enough for your kind words – they mean the absolute world to me, and I hope that you know that!**

 **As ever, please forgive any mistakes that I've made here. I am very tired.**

 **Chapter Seventy-Nine: Between a Rock and a Hard Place**

He found Gimli alone outside the gates of Edoras. The dwarf was sitting cross-legged on the grass, his axe laid out before him, and his eyes trained on the southern road.

Without a word, Legolas sat beside him, and stared out over Rohan. The twilight was beautiful, gracing the lands' many hills and glittering in its streams and rivers. Behind them, the sunset was one of staggering beauty, but Gimli was not looking that way. He was looking south – south-west – to where the inky dark of night was spilling its way over the land.

It was the road that Pippin and Gandalf had taken, if Legolas was not mistaken. He did not think that he was, but even he could catch no sight of the wizard now.

After a long moment, Gimli gave a heavy sigh. "How's your arm?"

Legolas glanced down at the offending limb, still secured in a sling against his chest. Though nearly a week had passed since the battle, it still sent stabs of pain through him on occasion. It was infuriating – the last time he had been so injured was when he fell out of a tree as an elfling. "It is healing well."

Gimli snorted. "And that's elvish for 'hurts like a warg bite to the arse,' I suppose?"

Legolas laughed, and sure enough the movement sent a spasm of pain up his arm. "That is not a direct translation, but it is close enough. It aches. But it will heal."

"You shouldn't have come with us to Isengard."

"Perhaps."

"You should definitely not ride out to war with us tomorrow."

"Perhaps," Legolas said again. "But it will not stop me."

Gimli raised his eyebrows, though he did not take his eyes from the road. "Whoever first called elves wise had clearly never met one," he grumbled. "Truly, Legolas, I do not think you should come."

Legolas gave a small smile. "I understand. But whether or not you think so, I am coming. I was not the first to say faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens."

Gimli's face twitched towards a smile, but it did not stick. Instead, he closed his eyes, and bowed his head. "Against my own heart, I have been faithless. My cousins walk down the darkest of roads, and yet I have said farewell to all but one of them. I let Pippin go. I did not look for Nelly and Bróin. I could not catch up with Frodo. I keep looking at Merry, and waiting for fate to take him from me, too."

Legolas looked back at Rohan. "It was not willingly that you left them, Gimli," he said softly. "Nor did you leave their road of your own accord. They will understand."

"I know," said Gimli gruffly. "But It still hurts."

Legolas said nothing. He did not know what words there were to say. But he sat beside Gimli, and when he heard the dwarf sniff, he offered a handkerchief without a word. Gimli took it, and they sat in silence as the night became complete, and the slithering crescent of the moon rose in the sky. It was almost utterly dark before them, with the little light coming from Edoras behind their backs, but in that darkness the beacon on the far mountain grew brighter, drawing Legolas' eye.

It had taken only seconds for Théoden to declare his people would ride to war, after he had seen the beacon had been lit. Legolas had not expected it, not from a man. In riding to war, Théoden was leaving his people defenceless, all in the face of the fading hope that they might be able to stand a while against Mordor. This king was gambling everything on so small a chance, even knowing that his sacrifice could be his kingdom, and his life, and his kin.

It was a gamble that Legolas knew his own father would never take, and that thought sent a twang of shame across his heart. He wondered when it was that his own people developed such an apathy towards men and hobbits and dwarves, and how they could ever have forgotten the bravery and loyalty and nobility that dwelt in their hearts.

If they had not forgotten that the other peoples of Middle-earth were indeed people too, perhaps the world would not be so fractured. Perhaps Théoden would be riding with an army of elves at his back, perhaps a coalition of dwarves and elves were already defending Minas Tirith.

Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

"The beacon gives the men hope," said Gimli, shaking his head. "To me it brings no such comfort."

"Why not? The men of the west are uniting-"

"If the night is burning, I will cover my eyes," intoned Gimli sombrely, his haunted eyes still staring ahead. "For if the Dark returns then my brothers will die. And as the sky is falling down it will crash into each Lonely Town, with Great Shadows upon the ground, I hear my people calling out – Oh Misty Eye of the Mountain, below! Keep careful watch of my brothers' souls, and should the sky be filled with fire and smoke, keep watching over Durin's sons."

Realisation filled Legolas, a warm, sacred feeling, and his mouth dropped open slightly. "That was a prayer."

"Aye."

"I have never heard a dwarven prayer before," murmured Legolas, and a great well of sadness rose within him. "Our peoples have been sundered for too long."

"Well, you started it," sighed Gimli wearily.

"No, I did not," said Legolas calmly. "I was not yet born. Were you?"

Gimli closed his eyes. "No, I was not. Sorry."

Legolas smiled sadly. "Do not be sorry. Perhaps we might make up for our ancestors' misdeeds."

At last, Gimli tore his face from the hills to look at Legolas, a frown on his face. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that tomorrow, we will ride for Harrowdale, with an army of men. There will be no dwarves, and no elves. If we fall, we will not die among our people."

"Cheery," said Gimli, raising one eyebrow. "You're doing a great job at lifting my spirits, elf."

Legolas smiled, and squeezed Gimli's arm. "You did not let me finish. Perhaps we cannot die fighting among our people. But we may yet be able to die side-by-side with our friends."

Gimli's mouth dropped open, and he looked away quickly. After a long moment, he nodded. "Aye. I could do that." Then, he punched Legolas deftly in the gut. "You still need lessons in bed-side manner, laddie. Dying and battles – you'd be no good in the Healing Halls, would you?"

"Yet you are smiling," Legolas pointed out, rubbing his stomach.

Gimli rolled his eyes, and as he sat back, Legolas distinctly heard a mutter of, "Elves…"

* * *

Nelly was unsettled. She could not put her finger on exactly what it was that was wrong, but there was something, and she had an awful feeling that it was something to do with Gollum. Ever since they had left Ithilien, he had been acting strangely – more strangely than usual. He would run ahead, far ahead, and when they caught up with him, it would be to find him whispering to himself, muttering, and sending vicious glares their way. Every time, he would catch himself, and widen his bulbous eyes and tell them to hurry in a sing-song voice, and Nelly did not like it.

She was also, reluctantly, worried about Toothy. He had been amazingly well behaved, and docile as one of their wolves, but he was big, and not over-fond of silence. As the trees wore away, and the land around them grew sparser and darker, she became more and more aware of the noise that he was making, between the grunts and growls, and the heavy padding of his feet.

She tried to keep the fears to herself even as they grew, but she knew that the others felt them too. There was little in the way of conversation, and she could read the tension in the faces of her friends. She could see their exhaustion in the slump of their shoulders, their unease in the roaming of their eyes.

Of course, her own eyes scanned the land just as much as theirs, and her own shoulders were slumped beneath the weight of the pack Faramir had gifted her. That said, the weight was more a comfort than a burden. After being hungry for so long, it felt good to know that she had as much food as she could carry strapped to her back. And she knew that it was as much as she could carry. Though Sam did not know it, she still been awake when he approached Faramir in the base in Ithilien.

 _"Begging your pardon, Master Faramir, but I was a-wondering if I could talk to you about the matter of food."_

 _At the sound of the word 'food', Nelly's eyes flickered open, though all she could see was the back of Bróin's head. She could hear him snoring softly, and Frodo breathing heavily behind her, and dimly she wondered why Sam had decided that now was the best time to talk food. Surely it could wait until morning…_

 _"Of course, Master Gamgee," replied Faramir._

 _"Now, I don't mean to be rude, or ask for more than I've earnt, but I want to make sure we have enough supplies to be get back again, and not just there, if that makes sense. And I'm worried about Nelly and Bróin – Nelly in particular."_

 _Nelly's stomach clenched, and a frown tugged its way onto her face. If Sam was about to pose the 'Nelly is a girl and needs special treatment' point, she would have something to say about it – even if it meant getting more food. But when Sam continued, her anger melted into sorrow._

 _"See, Saruman didn't feed them nearly enough, and she's – she's still so small. I can see her bones, Master Faramir, and that's not right, not for a hobbit. I've tried to fatten her up, her and Bróin – and he may not look it, sir, but he's little more than a child himself – but we've not had near enough food to do it. Not to mention we've got a warg and old Gollum with us. I know I'm asking a lot, but I'd appreciate it if you'd give us more food than you'd planned. Now, I can't give you anything in return right now, but I'm sure that when this whole mess has blown over my old Bofur'll be happy to-"_

 _"I'll give you as much as you can carry," said Faramir gently. "And I'll have them fill Toothy's saddle-bags, too. We have some dried food that we feed to the dogs – wheat meal and vegetables and offal boiled into biscuits. Now, they taste foul, so I don't advise trying them yourself unless you're desperate, but Toothy may like them, and it should keep him out of your food for a little while."_

It had been comical, actually, when they first gave Toothy one of the dog biscuits. He had been so excited, and his attempt to snuffle at his saddle bags made him spin around as though chasing his tail, but when Bróin told him to stop, and promised, 'later,' the warg had relented.

He seemed to like the dog food, though, and it seemed to sate him enough to keep him from begging the others for scraps. He even rolled a few biscuits towards Bróin, though the dwarf simply smiled, and rolled them back.

Time wore on, and even Bróin stopped smiling. It started to become difficult to track the days. The sun was never quite able to fully banish the night away, and darkness hung over the land like a great cloud, smothering light and hope alike.

Every now and again, a little sunlight would peek its way through the clouds, and once it even spurned a crown of yellow flowers to bloom over the decapitated head of a statue. But then the clouds swallowed it, and the blossoms closed, and the group trod on in silence. By the time they reached the great crossroads, the four were wound tighter than Kíli's bowstring. The air was thick with apprehension, and fear wove tightly around their ankles, but no one spoke of it. They hardly spoke at all.

And then, the land grew darker still, and, for the first time, Nelly saw it. A great, black tower – once beautiful, perhaps, but now wreathed in dread and darkness. An odd, green light glowed behind the windows, and the longer that she stared at it, the deeper hole despair carved into her stomach. It stole air from her lungs and made the blood flee from her face, and the fear grasped her so strongly and suddenly that he recognised it.

"The wraiths," she breathed, the whisper of her voice sounding as loud as thunder in her ears. "Is this where the wraiths live?"

"Yes," hissed Gollum fearfully, hurrying across the road to the dark rock on the other side. "Yes, dark things, wraiths, and wraiths with wings! They dwell in the dark place – come, master, come!"

"I think 'live's the wrong word to use, Nell," said Bróin, his voice trembling beneath his joking tone. "They're not exactly ali – Frodo, what're you doing? Frodo!"

Nelly whirled around, and her eyes widened.

Hand outstretched, Frodo was stumbling away from them, his feet moving strangely, dragging against the dirt as though they were not moving of their own accord. Without a second of hesitation, Sam lunged forward, grabbing Frodo around the chest and yanking him backwards, but Frodo fought him, and let out a wild cry. His legs flew into the air, flailing wildly as he pulled against Sam's grasp, trying to move forward, to get away, and as Nelly saw his face, she felt like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over her heart. Frodo's eyes were glazed over, and there was a look of desperate horror carved so deeply into his face that Nelly could never imagine it to look happy again.

"Frodo, snap out of it!" Sam growled, as Toothy began to whine, his ears plastered against his neck. Sméagol started to whimper, beckoning from the side of the road and staring fearfully at the tower, and then Toothy's whines grew quicker, more desperate, and he sank to the ground, shying away from Minas Morgul with his tail between his legs. "Bróin, grab his-"

"Already on it," grunted Bróin, and he caught one and then both of Frodo's legs.

Throwing back his head, Frodo opened his mouth to scream, but Nelly clamped her hand over his mouth, and together they dragged him across the road. He bucked in their grasp, but they held on, Nelly steering them to the sheer, black rock face on the other side of the road.

And then, in an explosion of white and green light, the sky was split in two. The hobbits and Bróin were thrown to their feet, and Sméagol gave a blood curdling shriek, sprinting for the cover of the nearby rocks, but Nelly could not move – she could not look away. A beam of light as wide as a dragon's leg was shooting into the sky, impaling the dark clouds above them, and it was brighter and more powerful than anything she had ever seen. A sense of dread rose from her toes to her throat, squeezing every part of her with a painful grasp. And then something else grasped her – a hand on her arm – and Bróin wrenched her up onto her feet.

"To the rocks!" he cried. "Move!"

Move.

Nelly turned, looking for Frodo, but Sam had already seized him, and this time, Frodo was not fighting back. Instead, he was holding tight to Sam's arms and darting towards Nelly and Bróin.

"This way!" Bróin gasped, tugging Nelly off of the road and into the rocks on the wayside. He paused at the entrance to a crevice beyond two great, ragged rocks, and ushered the others inside. Gollum was first to leap inside, followed by Frodo and Sam, and when Bróin coaxed Toothy inside, Nelly and Bróin squeezed in too. There was barely any room to move, between the sharp stone ceiling above their heads, and the rugged walls on either side, but if she peered over the boys' heads, Nelly could see the outside.

She could see the light.

It was equal parts mesmerised and terrifying, the light, but then she saw the first of the shadows. With silhouetted wings, it flew up and around the light, and then came another, and another, and before Nelly could count them, the overwhelming sense of dread and Gollum's shriek realised her worst fears.

"Wraiths! Wraiths with wings!"

"Shh!" she hissed desperately, though her eyes were almost as wide as Gollum's. "Shh Sméagol, they might hear us!"

"Are they… are they dragons?" asked Bróin in a faraway voice, and Sam shook his head.

"It doesn't matter," he said, squeezing past Frodo to reach the opening of the crevice. He wiggled out of his cape and hung it quickly from crags in the rocks, shielding Minas Morgul, and the lights, and the wraiths from view. "If they can't see us and don't find us, it doesn't matter what they are."

Taking a deep breath, Nelly nodded, winding her arm around Bróin's and pressing her face into his shoulder. He was pale, and shivering, but he glanced over to smile weakly at her.

And then Sam spoke again. "What was that, Frodo? Before."

Frodo dropped his head back against the wall, sinking to the ground. "I don't know," he groaned. "I – knew that I shouldn't, that I had to turn around, but something was calling me – pulling me. I couldn't… it's so heavy."

Nelly glanced at Bróin and Sam, but they looked at as much of a loss as she was. For once, even she did not know what to say. They were in over their heads, and she did not understand what the ring must feel like, or why it was so heavy, or how she could make it better.

But Sam, ever faithful, ever solid Sam, knew what to do, and he put a hand on Frodo's shoulder. "It's alright, Frodo. We won't let you walk the wrong way."

Frodo smiled weakly back at him, patting Sam's hand. "Thank you, Sam."

Nelly smiled a little, and her lips parted, but before she could agree with Sam, her ears twitched, and the smile bled from her face. "What… what's that noise?" Even as she asked it, she knew what it was. It was marching – hundreds, thousands, of marching feet. Sam turned, and moved the elven cloak an inch to peek outside.

And then the colour drained from his face, and Sam jerked back, moving the cloak back in place.

"What? What is it, Sam?" hissed Frodo.

"It's an army," he said, meeting the frightened eyes of the others. "There's an army of orcs marching this way. Now."

"An army?" asked Bróin weakly. "A – a whole army?"

"Quick!" said Frodo, pulling off his own cloak. "Bróin, cover the other entrance. We'll have to wait it out."

Nelly squirmed out of the way as Bróin hung the cloak over the entrance from the back. A musty darkness surrounded them, and Nelly could only make out vague shapes as the others sat down, surrendering themselves to the silence. She was just about close enough to see Bróin wrapping his arms around Toothy's neck, resting his chin on the warg's head, and every time the warg began to growl, the young dwarf would shush gently, or murmur little Khuzdul comforts. The swell of feet grew louder, and harsh voices joined them, and Nelly closed her eyes. Her hand travelled to her belt, to the knife that Faramir had given her. It would not be much use if they were found, but it made her feel better to have it in her hand.

 _Everyone was moving so fast, running around with axes and knives and arrows, and Mama was telling them that they had to get ready to go soon._

 _"You're going to be waiting in the Old Mill," she said, tucking Vinca's hair behind her ear and placing Pippin into Pearl's arms. "We're leaving in just a few minutes, and you're going to be just fine, Odo Proudfoot will be there, and lots of other people, and they'll look after you. You're going to be absolutely fine, I promise."_

 _"Then why are you crying, Mama?" asked Nelly, and Pearl scowled._

 _"Shh, Nelly!"_

 _"No, sweet-heart, it's alright," said Mama, kissing Nelly's forehead. "It's all just a little bit scary, that's all. Just a little bit. But we're going to be alright, we're all going to be fine. We just-"_

 _"Ellie, where's my bow gone?"_

 _Mama gave a small smile and stroked Nelly's cheek, and then gently pinched Vinca's chin. "I'll be right back, babies." She stood up and walked towards the sound of Papa's voice, and almost the same moment that she did so, there was a small whistle._

 _Nelly glanced towards it, and saw Nori standing in the hallway. He smiled, and beckoned to her, and she ran over, ignoring Pearl's indignant cry of her name. Nori crouched down to reach her, and she flung her arms around him. Nori gently shifted her onto his knee, and looked at her seriously._

 _"Now, are you listening to me, Nell?"_

 _She nodded, trying to make her face as serious as his._

 _"This, all of this goin' on, it's serious stuff. Today is a scary day, but you can't let being scared get to you. Being scared is sense in the face of danger, it's not anything to be ashamed about, but it's not anything that should control you, neither. You gotta use that scared, alright? Let it tell you when to run, use the energy it gives you. But don't let it stop you from doing what you've gotta do."_

 _Nelly swallowed. "What'll I gotta do, Nori? Mama says we'll be in the Mill House, she says it'll be safe."_

 _"And I hope it will be, but sometimes things go wrong. And if things do go wrong, you will have to be a big girl. You might have to run, and you might have to fight," said Nori sombrely. "If something goes wrong, you gotta do whatever you can to get out of there, alright?"_

 _Fear creeping up her throat, Nelly nodded. "Why're you telling me and not everybody else?"_

 _Nori smiled. "'cause you're my favourite." When Nelly giggled, his grin waned a little. "And because I don't have one of these for everyone." He reached into his pocket, and pulled out someone very small – only as long as Nelly's hand. It was made of leather, but it was shaped like a long, pointy leaf, and had a handle like a knife. Nori undid a buckle and pulled on the handle, and Nelly's eyes widened as she saw a flash of metal._

 _It_ was _a knife._

 _Nelly looked up at Nori, her eyes so wide that it almost hurt, and he met her gaze for a long moment. Then, he looked back down, and she did too. He pushed it back into the leather and re-did the buckle, and then he placed the knife gently on her open palm, closing her fingers around it. Only then did he speak again._

 _"Now, this isn't a toy," he said, and she met his eyes again. "It is dangerous – this can hurt, and this can kill. But if the bad guys find you, if you need to use it, you do, alright? Just in case."_

 _"Just in case," she whispered, and Nori smiled._

 _"Proud of you, kid," he said. "Now, keep that in on you, but keep it hidden. And whatever you do, don't tell your mama that I gave it to you, alright?"_

She never had told her mother about that knife. She was not sure if Ellie even knew that she had it. She knew that Nelly had _knives,_ of course, but that one specific blade was Nelly's own little secret. She had kept it ever since the day that the Shire was attacked. Nori had looked after it for a while, but only until he had taught her how to safely use it, and believed her promises to never, ever, use it as a toy. She had outgrown it, but it made her feel safe. It made her feel like she could make herself safe.

But that knife, like everything else she had ever owned, was gone.

She had last had it at Rauros, but whether she had dropped it there, or it had been taken by the uruk-hai, she did not know. The knife on her belt was not hers. The clothes on her back were not hers. But the knife she missed more than anything, except perhaps her elven corset. A small, sad smile slipped over her face at the thought of what Nori would say.

 _"Why you so worked up about a knife? It's just a knife. I'll make you a new'un."_

Her arm wove around her stomach, and she bowed her head. The feet were still marching past, the army was still passing, and if felt like it was passing forever.

But, slow as it was, the time did move on. The marching dulled and dwindled, until it was nothing more than a whispered memory on the breeze. Still, they waited, until Nelly had counted two hundred breaths in silence, and then Sam peeked out from behind the cape.

"The light's still there, but I think we're clear."

"Yes," rasped Sméagol, in a voice that sounded strangely excited. "Yes, clear we are, precious. It is time, it is time! Up, up, up the stairs we go!"

"What's at the top of the stairs?" asked Bróin warily.

"The way to Mordor," said Gollum, and something about his voice made the hair on the back of Nelly's neck stand on end. "And… the tunnel."

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Again, sorry not to show as many threads of the story as I would have liked, but I hope that the little Nelly/Nori flashback was enjoyable for those of you asking for more Nelly/Nori scenes! Please let me know what you thought of the chapter if you can, and I will do my best to see you next week!**

 **Until then, take care!**


	80. Chapter 80: The Twining Roads to War

**Hey there! Apologies for another late chapter – my life has been rather hectic, lately. Thank you to all of the lovely people who have left reviews, it truly means the world to me.**

 **As ever, please forgive any mistakes – and also, there is a song reference at some point in this chapter, so points if you get what it is! I'll reveal it in the end-note!**

 **Chapter Eighty: The Twining Roads to Battle**

The Muster of Rohan truly was a sight to behold. After talking with Aragorn, Merry had not expected so many troops to answer the call, even though it was the call of their king. The safe, lawful land that Merry knew Rohan to be relied on the constant patrolling and communication of Théoden's guards, and without them they were little more than a scattered people in a series of very flammable towns, villages and homesteads.

And still, near on six thousand soldiers were camped in the hidden mountain refuge of Dunharrow. Some seemed to have brought their families with them, but the warriors far outnumbered the refugees.

The day after tomorrow, they would be riding for Gondor. Though the last thing that he wanted was to ride into a battle, it still felt like they were waiting too long. It had been bad enough riding in the opposite direction to Gondor to get to Dunharrow – they had delayed long enough, he was sure. Yet Éomer still seemed hopeful that more soldiers would come, and Théoden insisted that it would be wiser to wait.

After what he had seen, Merry did not doubt it – he just hated waiting.

He sat at the top of the long, winding path that led to the mountain refuge, peering down into the misty evening below. At least if he was watching, he was doing something. He wondered where Pippin was, if he was alright. If Boromir's father was taking as good care of him as Boromir promised. Movement caught his eye from down below, and beside him, Denahi pricked up his ears. There were horsemen, three or four of them, perhaps, shrouded in dark, blue-grey cloaks.

Keeping an eye on these new riders, Merry called out to a nearby guard, and together they waited until the sound of the horse-hooves were loud as drums, and the riders began to enter the swell of light from Rohan's torches.

"Halt!" called the guard, and the hoofbeats stopped. "Who goes there?"

"I am Elladan, of Rivendell," replied a lyrical, oh-so-familiar voice as the torchlight fell on two very well-known faces. "With me are my brother Elrohir, and Halbarad, of the Dúnedain Rangers. We are seeking his kinsmen – Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I believe he is here."

"Elladan!" cried Merry, happiness swelling within him at a familiar face appearing, instead of disappearing. "Elrohir! He is here, he's just inside."

"You know these folk, young master?" the guard asked Merry, a heavy frown on his face.

"They are the sons of Elrond, and very fine folk indeed," said Merry, glancing at Halbarad. There was something familiar about the name, and the face, but he could not place them, so instead he said, "And that's the uniform of a Dúnedain Ranger if I've ever seen one."

"Very well," said the guard. "I shall fetch Lord Aragorn, so that he can bid you enter. I'm afraid neither Master Brandybuck nor myself have such authority."

Elladan inclined his head, dismounting gracefully. "Of course. We shall wait here. But I would ask for you to seek some fresh hay and clean water for our horses. They have ridden fast, and far, and are in much need of rest."

The guard bowed, and Merry ran up to the elven twins, throwing his arms around them both – as far as they would go, at least – in a move that made them both laugh.

"It's good to see you!" he admitted, pulling away and looking to Halbarad. "Have we met before?"

Halbarad smiled warmly. "I think so – is your name, by any chance, Merry Brandybuck?" When Merry nodded, so did Halbarad. "I journeyed to Erebor once, with my mother, to deliver a parcel to Samwise Gamgee. I believe we were both children at the time."

Merry nodded slowly, memories of laughter and games and an old, dog-eared gardening book stirring in the back of his mind. It felt like far more than a lifetime ago. "I remember now."

"I heard that you have caused quite the commotion, since then," commented Halbarad, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm impressed."

Merry smiled back, but it took a little effort this time. "Thank you."

Elrohir clearly picked up on the tension, and gave a soft smile of his own. "Do not fear, Merry. We are not here to lecture you. We understand what you did, and why, though it was not the way that we would see things go."

"I bet your father wasn't best pleased with us?" said Merry, feeling almost guilty for how they had left.

Elladan raised an eyebrow. "He was not angry."

"Just disappointed?" Merry supplied glumly, but Elladan laughed.

"So it is not only the elves who use such tactics on mischievous children? To tell the truth, I do not think he was disappointed, either. Of course, he was sad that a group of folk so young would feel compelled to undertake a task, and he fears for you. But he was not angry."

A cry of joy announced Aragorn's arrival, and he ran at the twins with twice the gusto that Merry had, seizing them tightly in his arms despite their obviously feigned protests. Turning his head over his shoulder, Aragorn called back to the guard, "I give them leave to enter! These folk will do Rohan no harm."

"In that case, welcome," said the guard, bowing low again, and returning to his post.

"I am so pleased to see you," said Aragorn, peeling away from the twins to seize Halbarad in an equally tight embrace. "What brings you here?"

"We have come to help," said Elladan. "And to deliver this." He pulled out a thin envelope from his cloak, but to Merry's astonishment, he did not hand it to Aragorn.

Instead, he passed it to Merry.

Stunned, the hobbit peered down at the envelope, and his heart gave a painful squeeze at the familiar writing across the front. It was not only the words, _'The Family of Kíli Baggins'_ that hurt, but the hand they were written in.

"Mama…" he murmured, hardly realising that he spoke aloud.

"We should go inside," said Aragorn, but Merry could not wait for inside. He grabbed his knife from his belt and slit open the envelope, shaking the letter out into his hands.

 _My dear ones,_

 _I don't know which of you will read this, or if anyone ever will. But in desperate hope I write to you with news of the Shire – for if you think to return to safety, I beg of you to make for Erebor instead. The Shire is not safe. Not anymore._

 _The attacks began a week after we received word from Rivendell – the first fell upon Crick Hollow, in Buckland. Ruffians and raiders came upon the town, searching for us, and as their homes burned behind them, some pointed towards Hobbiton. I will name no names, and I do not blame them – neither should you. It is not fair to judge them simply because they do not share the incredible courage that you have._

 _In any case, it was not long before Men arrived in Hobbiton. They claimed to be Rangers, though they wore no uniform. They were looking for us – for the 'hobbit lords of Erebor,' and especially for the dwarflings, but mercifully Papa had already started dressing them like wee hobbits (Bodin looks adorable with curls in his hair, though he fights every evening like a wildcat against having them in.) They could not find us – we blend in well enough, there being no one willing to give us up, and on the first night, the men left empty handed. The next day they returned with swords, and raided twenty homes before we could get there with our bows, and chase them off. No one was killed, though Hugo Boffin received a nasty black eye, and we were all much shaken._

 _True rangers arrived by the end of that first week, a group of fifty of them, but their presence doesn't seem to be much of a deterrent. The attacks have neither slowed, nor ceased. Once or twice a week we beat them back, but we don't know exactly who it is that we are fighting, so there is no way of ripping out the weeds by the roots. Most of the raiders are Men, but there have been dwarves, as well, and we hear rumours of orcs from the edge of the West Farthing. Though there have been no deaths here in Hobbiton, we're afraid that throughout the Shire, the toll may be even greater than the dozen fatalities that we have heard of._

 _How much longer we can hold, I do not know, but we will do what we can, and what we must. If chance falls upon you to send aid our way, it would be appreciated, but I beg you not to return yourselves. You will only make the Shire a greater target, and risk running towards ruin. You may even risk ruining the world. I do not write, however, with the expectation of receiving any help. What I hope is that you will take this news to any lords to come upon, and implore them not to sit idle. You rile up the world, my darlings – you tell them that this war is reaching the most sheltered of folk, and that if they don't fight it, our entire world will be swept away. You must make sure that they fight, and we will make sure that we fight, just like our dwarves taught us. We will fight, and so must you. But if you are injured, and forced to fall back, I beg you turn first to Erebor, or to our allies. There is no safety to be found here anymore._

 _I have but one more request of you, if fate is kind enough to let you read this. Please, if you have any chance to see Merry, please deliver him my words, and my love:_

 _Merry, I have heard of what you have done, and it has torn my heart in two, but I am so, so proud of you. Were I there, I would have done the same thing, and I have no words for how proud I am. But please, my baby, take care. Take care of your cousins and your friends, but most importantly, take care of yourself. Please, please, keep yourself safe, and make sure that when this is over you can come home, whole and unharmed. I beg you, baby, to come home when your work is done. But do not fear for the Shire, or for your Papa and I. We will meet again. I may not know where, or when, or how, but I know that I will find you, be it here, or in Erebor, or even in the Halls of Mandos. I will always find you, Merry, I promise that. I love you so much, so much more than I can ever write. Just believe in yourself with every step that you take, and know I am smiling with pride every day. My love will forever be stronger than strong, and don't be afraid – you are never alone._

 _My love to you, who may read this, and to all family my words cannot reach._

 _May the Valar save you all,_

 _Esmeralda Brandybuck_

Merry stared at his mother's name until his eyes lost focus, though that could have been through the tears that threatened to mist over his eyes. He sniffed, and dragged his arm roughly over his eyes, clearing his throat. This was not the time for crying. His fingers shook, and the paper held within them fluttered as though tugged by the wind, but he steadied himself, and looked up at the elves.

"When… when did she write this? How did you get it?"

It was Halbarad who answered, his face grave. "It was written just over a month ago, the day I left the Shire. My job was to seek reinforcements, and two of my kin left with me. I managed to rally two dozen rangers from the surrounding lands, but we are a dwindling people, and I fear it is not enough. My companions and I split up, heading one heading north and the other south, while I rode towards Rivendell, to seek the advice of Lord Elrond. I was little over halfway there when I met Elladan and Elrohir."

"Rivendell is surrounded," said Elladan gravely. "None have been bold enough to make a move into the valley, but throngs of orcs are camped around it, and their spies are everywhere. We wished to ride east and play our part in this war, but to have any chance of doing so we knew that we had little choice but to go back on ourselves, and then take the North-South road to Rohan. We collected Halbarad along the way – he knew it was the only chance he would likely get in delivering his letter."

"Yet our father had foreseen trouble in the Shire, and some of our people did go west," added Elrohir, looking at Merry. "Glorfindel is leading a small group to assist the Shire, and Ori Dragonsbane went with him."

Merry nodded slowly, as if receiving so much horrible news was something he was used to. In truth, the information was a tornado behind his eyes, flying so fast in so many directions that he could barely keep track. His home was under attack – both of his homes were under attack – and his mother and father were on the front line. Unlike the younger dwobbits, neither Saradoc or Esme had received much more than the most basic of training in weaponry, though they were both pretty good with a bow, and the same was true of Paladin and Ellie – if they were in a real battle –

And Bodin and Orla and Ola – what would happen to them if they were captured? They were only children, but Merry was not nearly naïve enough to think that would spare them fear and pain. He had heard stories of what kidnappers would do to procure a ransom –

And the dwarves of the Blue Mountains could not help, which meant that they too were under attack, and the whole Shire was guarded only by a handful of Rangers and half a dozen elves, and hobbits were already dead, and –

No.

He had to focus.

He had to figure out what to do.

What he wanted to do was leap on Denahi's back and ride to the Shire with all the speed that he could, but he knew that it was worthless. He was alone, just one hobbit, and he could not change the tide of a war on his own. Also, if he did, he would be turning his back on Pippin, and Frodo and Sam and Nelly and Bróin.

So first things first.

"I'm going to find Gimli," he said. "He needs to see this."

Aragorn frowned sympathetically, reaching out his hand. "Merry-"

"I'm fine. But Gimli is family of Kíli Baggins too, and he needs to read this."

Without waiting for an answer, Merry strode back into the camp, keeping his jaw clenched and his hands relaxed. He wanted to scrunch up his fists, but doing so would crumple the letter, and that was not a risk that he was willing to take. Something in his scowl must have meant business, because the men of Rohan parted before him as he stalked through their camp. Of course, Denahi's raised hackles might have had something to do with their retreat.

It took him less than a minute to find Gimli, who was laughing with Boromir, Éomer and Legolas around a smoking fire.

"…I told you," Gimli was chortling, "Never trust a man to make a fire. Could hardly make it smoke more if I – Merry! What's wrong?"

Wordlessly, Merry passed Gimli the letter, and used the time it took the dwarf to read it to slow his breathing.

"What's going on?" asked Éomer, looking between Merry and Gimli. Then his eyes widened, and as Legolas and Boromir stood, so did he. Gimli was too busy reading the letter to focus on such a trivial thing as manners. "I see we have visitors."

Even as Aragorn murmured introductions, Merry only had eyes for Gimli, whose eyes were growing darker and darker. Finally, he looked up, and met Merry's eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words came from his lips. He closed his eyes and hung his head, and Merry darted forwards, swiping the letter from his fingers before it could fall too close to the fire.

Carefully, he folded it over itself and slid it back into its envelope, before tucking it safely inside his pocket. He took a deep breath and stepped back, meeting the wary eyes of Boromir, Legolas and Éomer.

"The Shire is under attack," he said, and it sounded as though his voice belonged to someone else. Someone whose world was not falling apart. "Raiders, ruffians – no one knows who they really are, but they have brought war to the most peaceful place in all of Middle-Earth, and – and my people don't stand a chance. There are Rangers with them, and that might help them last a while, but if we don't win this war, there will be no safe place left in the west."

Boromir put a hand on his chest and Éomer's eyes widened, as Legolas bowed his head.

"I am deeply sorry to hear that," said Éomer solemnly. "War is no place for the innocent and sheltered."

"No, it isn't, but it's found them anyway," said Merry, and a tremor broke into his voice. "And there's nothing we can do about it. We cannot go back. We must fight on, _push_ on. We must go east."

"This is ill news indeed," whispered Boromir, running his hand through his hair. "Tell me there is not more bad news?"

"There is more news to be shared, I deem," said Elrohir, almost sheepishly. He looked to Aragorn, and for a long moment they shared a gaze. Then Aragorn nodded.

"I will not be riding to war with you," he said heavily. "Though, if the Valar are willing, I will meet you there."

Merry's heart seized, and he folded his arms. "And what, exactly, do you mean by that?"

"There is a road I must take – the Paths of the Dead."

"The what of the who?" Merry spluttered. "That doesn't sound like a good idea."

"I stand with the hobbit," said Éomer. "No man has ever returned from those paths with his sanity – of those who have returned at all."

"No man can hope to gain anything from the mountain while the dead dwell there," said Elrohir. "No man, save the Heir of Isildur. For it was an oath to Isildur that they broke, and were thence cursed. But Aragorn may be able to convince them to fight, and that could be the difference between victory and defeat."

"Wait – the dead? What do you mean, the dead?" demanded Gimli.

"Once they were men," explained Boromir, looking deeply concerned, "they swore an oath of allegiance to the King of Gondor, but when Sauron attacked, and they were called to fight, they fled into the mountains. Isildur cursed them, that they would remain without rest until their oath was fulfilled. Their ghosts have dwelt in the mountains ever since."

"Ghosts?" repeated the dwarf, throwing an incredulous look to Merry. "You want to gather an army of ghosts?"

"As Elrohir said, it could tip the scales," said Elladan, turning to Aragorn. "Our father said this would be a path you would take. We three have come to take it with you – to whatever end."

"I will go with you," said Boromir quietly. "I know this is the path I must take. I will not return to my city before my king."

Merry was surprised – he had expected Boromir to share his own desire to reach Minas Tirith as soon as possible. Whether he was surprised too, Aragorn did not say, but he put a hand over his head and bowed deeply.

"I would not ask anyone to come with me," he said.

"And still, we will go," said Boromir.

"I will go too," said Legolas. "I do not fear the dead."

"If pointy-ears is coming, so am I," grunted Gimli, but then he paused, and met Merry's eyes. "Even if that means one more goodbye. I do not think such a path is one a hobbit should take."

Merry smiled sadly. "You should know by now, Gimli, there's nothing a hobbit can't do, and nowhere a hobbit can't go. But you don't have to worry. I won't be taking the Paths of the Dead."

Gimli frowned. "You won't?"

"No," said Merry, turning to Éomer. "I'm going to Gondor by the straightest road I can. I am riding to war with you." Éomer's eyes grew so wide it looked like they were about to spring from his skull, and Gimli began to splutter a protest, but Merry shook his head. "I may be a hobbit, and a small one at that, but I can fight as well as any dwarf my age and all my friends are fighting. I would be ashamed to be left behind. And before you start, I won't be a burden – Denahi will bear me longer than any horse can bear you."

"You do not know the horror of war," said Éomer.

Merry shrugged. "So you say. But I'm not asking permission. The only way you can stop me from riding into that battle is to kill me, here and now."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there!" said Gimli, getting to his feet for the first time to stalk around the fire. "You cut that talk out, Master Brandybuck, before I tell your mother!" With that, he seized Merry's forearms tightly, and stared deep into Merry's eyes. He slipped quickly into Khuzdul, lines of fear and sorrow carved deeply into his face as he asked, _"Are you sure?"_

 _"Certain,"_ replied Merry in the same tongue, though a lump was growing in his throat. _"I have to go and find Pippin. I cannot take a detour."_

 _"I will stay with you, if you wish it of me,"_ swore Gimli, holding Merry's arms tighter. _"I will protect you, and fight beside you, and we will find Pippin together."_

 _"No,"_ said Merry, though he wanted more than anything for Gimli to stay. To watch him go, to see the last member of his family torn from him – it was already ripping at Merry's soul. But he knew what had to be done. _"I think we both know this is the path you have to take. And besides, the elf would never let you live it down if you backed away now."_

Gimli did not smile. _"And you are certain? No one will think less of you for staying here, or in Edoras, I swear it. There is no need to be ashamed – aye you're a capable swordsman, but you're not a soldier."_

Merry swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. "I am sure."

Gimli closed his eyes and bowed his head, gently pulling Merry forward so that their foreheads touched. "I will find you at the battle," he promised, his hands shaking on the back of Merry's head. "Maybe even before you find Pippin. And we will fight together."

"It's a deal," whispered Merry, his voice cracking. Already, he felt so hopelessly, desperately alone.

"I'm very proud of you," muttered Gimli, and the next thing he knew Merry was being crushed against the dwarf's chest in the fiercest hug of his life. "Now, see here laddie," Gimli called over Merry's shoulder. "My cousin here means an awful lot to me, and there's no stopping him from going into battle. But if you could keep an eye on him, when fate allows you-"

"Gimli!" Merry protested, but Éomer did not seem to hear him.

"I will protect him, as best I can, though I can make no promise other than that," said Éomer. "I cannot promise that I will not leave him, if that is what the battle calls for."

"I understand," said Gimli, but he held Merry tighter. "And you look after these horse-lads, you hear?"

Merry laughed, and gave a nod, and finally Gimli released him, and he could breathe.

"When do we need to leave?" the dwarf asked Aragorn, who gave a sorrowful smile.

"Yesterday," he said. "Though now will suffice."

Gimli nodded, and cleared his throat. "Thought as much. You take care now, Merry. And I will see you soon."

Merry nodded, but he could not talk. There was too much fear in his own throat to be cleared with a simple cough. Nevertheless, he kept tears at bay as he embraced Aragorn and Legolas, and then Elladan and Elrohir.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" said Elladan, shaking his head slightly. He put his hands on Merry's shoulders and smiled. "I thought you would like to know that Bofin is doing remarkably well, for so young a dwarf with such an injury. He was in good spirits, and able to sit up and enjoy the gardens when we left Rivendell."

"Thank you," mumbled Merry, but they were all the words he could manage. Elladan squeezed his shoulders, and then turned, mounting his horse.

Finally, Boromir stood before him, having already helped Gimli up onto the back of Legolas' horse. The man knelt on one knee before Merry, enveloped him in a hug almost as fierce as the dwarf's.

"Take care, Merry," he murmured. "It pains me to see you ride to war, but we will meet you there. You keep yourself alive and whole, and if I am standing at the end of the battles to come, I will ride west with you, and scour the land of ruffians with all the wrath of Gondor."

Unable to respond with anything but a nod, Merry clung to Boromir for as long as he dared. Then, he released the man, and watched him join the others. They rode away, and Gimli turned to give one final wave goodbye, before the misty path before him swallowed the riders whole.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! We will receive more insight into motiviations (specifically Boromir's, though I will happily explore anyone else's motives that you would particularly like to see) as to the paths they have taken in upcoming chapters.**

 **So the song referenced in this chapter was in Esme's letter:**

 _Just believe in yourself with every step that you take, and know I am smiling with pride every day. My love will forever be stronger than strong, and don't be afraid – you are never alone._

 **This is a slight paraphrasing (but mostly quote) of the fantastic song 'Fall On Me' by Andrea and Matteo Bocelli, which was released as part of the soundtrack to Disney's 'Nutcracker and the Four Realms' movie (which I still haven't seen.) The song is absolutely gorgeous, so check it out!**

 **If you have any feedback, please do leave a review! We've finally reached over 200, which is fantastic! I cannot thank you enough.**

 **In any case, until I next see you, take care!**


	81. Chapter 81: The Paths of the Dead

**Hey there! I'm really sorry for the horribly long wait between chapters. Unfortunately, over the last month or so I've experienced some stressful and sad times, leading to a pretty significant case of burnout, and I got to the point where writing (of any type) was almost painful, and difficult, and therefore all I wrote was quite bad, and I no longer enjoyed it at all.**

 **In order to get my love for writing back, and sort out my mental health, I had to take a little bit of a break from writing both novel and fanfiction, which was really difficult, but I feel so much better now, and I have two chapters for you tonight in way of apology. Again, I explain this to you not as a plea for sympathy but to offer an explanation as to why I did not update as I try to.**

 **I don't know, honestly, if there'll be a Monday update – I hope so, and plan to, but if I can't make it, I will update next Monday instead, and try to get back into a rhythm then.**

 **As ever, please forgive my typos, and I hope that you enjoy these chapters!**

 **Chapter Eighty-One: The Paths of the Dead**

Once, when Gimli was a child, his father had taken him into the forges. At so young an age, Gimli had been fascinated by the glowing of a set of chainmail that the armourer was making. So fascinated, in fact, that he had hurried to get a better look, tripping over his own feet and knocking the whole lot into a nearby vat of water. To his horror, the links of the mail had writhed at the sudden change in temperature, hardening into a useless, tangled lump of iron.

That was what Gimli's gut felt like as they rode through the steep, cold valley to reach the Paths of the Dead.

It was not the destination that had his insides so twisted – though he was not exactly looking forward to whatever new hell this might be. No, it was what he had left behind that was tormenting him.

After all that he had done, after everything that had happened, he had left Merry alone. Completely alone. The people of Rohan may be allies, and some among them were dear to Gimli, but Merry had known none of them long enough to even call them friends. Of the conspiracy, and the fellowship, none were left beside him – Merry was completely alone. And he was also about to ride into battle – into a real war with real armies.

And Gimli had left him.

Of course, it had not been without reason. Over the course of their journey, he had come to love Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir as dearly as his kin, and their road was the darker path. That meant that they needed him the most, and he would not turn his back on them. Even if they did not ask him to come.

But leaving Merry behind…

That would weigh on his heart until the day he died, and he knew it.

To see his young cousin looking so brave, so _grave,_ and resolute about riding into battle – that too was something he could never forget. It terrified him, and it made him so, so proud.

Taking a deep breath, Gimli resolved to hold onto that pride, and to commit to his path. His family were scattered, yes, and fractured, but they were folk of Erebor, and they were strong. They would endure.

Yes, they would endure.

The horses began to grow restless, letting out anxious whinnies and pawing at the ground between steps, but the rangers and elves muttered in soft Sindarin, and they held their course. A sense of dread began to arise in Gimli, like a snake curling first around his ankles, and then writhing around his legs, and then his chest, and then his throat. The further they rode into the valley, the colder it became, but it was a strange, otherworldly cold.

It felt as though he was freezing from the inside out.

He shivered, and glanced around at the others. Though at first, Aragorn, Halbarad and Elrond's sons had been almost cheerful, now their faces were carved of stone, with each jaw set in grim fear. It made Gimli feel a little better about his own scowl.

Only Legolas did not seem afraid. He rode with his usual ease, and when he glanced over his shoulder at Gimli, his face was calm as the Mirrormere. Once, it would have angered Gimli, this show of elvish fearlessness, but now it was a comfort. A weak one, but a comfort nonetheless.

If Legolas was not afraid, there was a chance that they would make it out alive.

After an eternity of riding that did not seem nearly long enough, they came to a space where their horses could stand side by side – a place where their horses would ride no further.

They had reached the Door of the Dead.

Though even as he looked into the inky darkness within it, and fear furled out from it like a heavy smoke, Gimli could not help but think the 'Doorway of the Dead' would be a more appropriate name. There was nothing between outside and inside, no barrier of wood or metal or stone to separate them from the realm of the dead – only a gaping gateway with dark runes smeared over its frames.

"The way is shut," Elrohir read, "it was made by the dead, and the dead keep it. The way is shut."

"Doesn't look very shut to me," Gimli muttered, but his voice was soft as a mouse's whisper, and the air around him swallowed his words.

"We will have to lead the horses from here," said Elrohir, his fingers combing through his own beast's mane. "We will need them on the other side, but I don't think they will ride in of their own accord."

For a moment they lingered, each waiting for someone else to make the first move. Finally, Aragorn broke the silence.

"I do not ask any of you to come with me."

"For the love of gold, laddie, we're all here, and we're not turning back," Gimli muttered, shaking his head and sliding down from the horse. The moment his feet hit the ground, a thrill shuddered up him, stealing his breath. The very stone beneath his feet felt foreboding, and restless, and cruel. He shivered, and turned his eyes to the inky black of the doorway.

It was like staring into the depths of Khazad-dûm, if the depths of Khazad-dûm had been stripped of history and beauty and pride, and imbued with malice.

"I do not fear death," said Aragorn, but his voice was as a whisper, and even as he strode towards the door, Gimli could see the tightness in his shoulders. His horse protested, whickering and stomping its feet, but Aragorn calmed it with a few soft words, and then he stepped forwards, and was swallowed by the dark.

Without hesitation, Elrond's sons stepped in after him, and then Halbarad stepped forward. He paused, and Gimli thought that he looked pale.

"My death lies beyond this door," he murmured, like one in a dream. "Yet I will go, all the same." And with that, he too delved int the dark before them.

Boromir, who looked positively grey with fear, took a tentative step for the door, but his horse shrieked and reared, pulling away with a force that flung Boromir to one side. Even as the man swore, Legolas darted forwards and took the reins, murmuring gentle elvish to the creature. Slowly, the horse returned his hooves to the ground, and snuffled at Legolas' shoulder, his eyes white, and horrified. Carefully, Legolas arranged both the reins of his own horse and of Boromir's in his left hand – his right was still bound to his chest in its splint and sling.

"I will lead your horse," said the elf, nodding at Boromir, who gave a grateful ghost of a half-smile.

"Thank you, my friend," he muttered, letting the reins fall from his fingers. He looked to Gimli, and shook his head. "We are being left behind." Legolas nodded, and Boromir swallowed, pulling back his shoulders and striding into the gloom. Legolas and the two horses were right behind him, and then Gimli was left with the very sudden realisation that he was alone.

"What's this?" he said to himself, his voice falling flat against the cold stone. "An elf goes underground, where a dwarf dared not?"

Gritting his teeth, he fought every instinct in his body, and plunged himself into the abyss. For a moment it was overwhelmingly, suffocatingly dark, and for the first time in his life, Gimli felt that the dark was something to be afraid of. He could not see his hands before his face, or the glint of his axe, or even the darker shapes of shadows, and his breath began to come quickly, sharply. His hands moved out in front of him, and he began to run, but his fingers warned him of a corner, and when he rounded it, he found a flaming torch in his face.

"Kakhuf inbarathrag!" he swore, jumping back before the flames could burn his beard off. "You could have warned me, Legolas!"

The elf grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Do you want the torch or not?"

Gimli pulled a face that would have made his mother roll her eyes halfway out of her skull, and held out his hand.

"Aragorn has the other," said Legolas as he passed the torch on. "The head and tail of the group."

Gimli nodded, and Legolas turned around, nodding his head. The others had been waiting, it seemed, for Gimli to catch up. He rolled his shoulders and steeled himself. They would not have to wait for him again.

Though the torchlight did not spread far, it was more than enough for Gimli to see with – so much so that he thought it would probably have been wiser for Boromir or Halbarad to be the second torch-bearer – the eyes of men were not accustomed to such darkness. Still, they were not complaining, and Gimli felt a little better with fire in hand, so he said nothing.

He did not think much of the tunnels – though they seemed sound enough structurally, they looked rough as an orc's backside, and he could see mould on the damp, dark walls. The ceiling jutted down in razor sharp stalactites, and the sides of the passageway were lined with fractured bones. After a few minutes of walking, Aragorn called a warning down the line, but it still made Gimli's stomach churn when it was his turn to see the corpse splayed across their path. Whatever clothing the poor soul had worn had long since decayed, and if he was a man or an elf or even an orc could no longer be told. But there was still flesh clinging to his bones. This corpse was old – but not that old.

Gimli shuddered as he stepped over the body. He doubted it would be the last corpse he would see in this damned place, but he held to hope that it would be the freshest body they found. And that they would not make any fresher corpses, themselves. They travelled in silence, but Gimli had the very strong sensation that he was being watched. And followed. Movements caught the edge of his eye, but every time he turned it was to see an empty passage, leading to a well of darkness behind him.

Whispers ran through the darkness, hissing words that Gimli could not make out, and making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He kept as close to Legolas as possible – though given that the elf was leading two horses, it was not particularly close at all. As if Gimli's thought had called to him, Legolas looked over his shoulder, and as he did the colour drained from his face.

Gimli whipped around. He could see nothing, nothing at all behind him, but the others' quiet questions grew to a clamour around them, and he turned back to the elf.

"What is it?" he demanded, his heart growing faster with fear at the horror in the elf's eyes.

"The dead," said Legolas, "the dead are following."

"They have been summoned," said Elrohir gravely. "Come, we must get to the Stone of Erech – there we have a chance of communicating. They should suffer us to pass that far, at least."

"Should? Chance? Summoned? Well, that's all very comforting," Gimli muttered, liking the fact that two great horse separated him from the others less and less by the second.

"They will not harm you," Aragorn promised, but Gimli was neither convinced, nor comforted.

They picked up the pace, and the horses became more restless, snorting and whickering softly, and when they looked back, Gimli could see the whites of their eyes. Legolas looked back often, too, his eyes always focused on something behind Gimli, something that Gimli could not see. By now, the dwarf's heart was beating so fast that he could feel it, so fast it was like a giant bumblebee buzzing in his chest, its beats so fast they were blurred. Terror had formed a hardened case around it, and with every frantic beat his fear grew deeper and deeper.

And then he felt the air move around him, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the shadow of a blade.

"Legolas!" he yelled, and the elf turned and gave a cry of fear. Gimli dove forward, but even as he cried out, Legolas' hands moved like lightning, and he shot an arrow into the air beside Gimli's head. He heard the arrow splinter against the wall behind him, but Gimli was not waiting to see if it had had any impact on the ghost. He sprang forwards and pushed his way between the two panicking horses. Usually, the idea of squeezing between two stomping, shrieking beasts over twice his size while brandishing a lit torch was an alarming one, but there was no way that Gimli was taking up the rear any more.

"Don't stop!" he roared at the rangers and elves staring dumbstruck at him. "Move!"

Aragorn broke into a run, and they sped through the tunnels as fast as their legs would carry them, until space broke out before them, and they spilled into a wide, open chamber, and the fear in Gimli's heart rose higher than he had known it possible to go. The walls around them were covered in skulls and bones – hundreds, maybe thousands of them, with swords and stalagmites speared through empty eye sockets, and splintered skeletons strewn on the ground beneath their feet. There was a green glow clinging to the rock, setting Gimli's teeth on edge, and in the very centre of the room was a short pillar, bearing a dark, dull stone.

"The Stone of Erech," murmured one of the elven twins. Gimli neither cared which one had spoken, nor what in Durin's name they were talking about. Because now, Gimli could see the dead too.

It was like seeing mist in human form – twisted, decaying human form – with faces half missing from rot, and torn armour that revealed bare ribs below. There were hundreds of them, and they were floating over from all directions, their soulless eyes boring into the travellers, their bodies blurring into each other's as they formed a ring around the travellers. Weapons hung from their sides, rotted and broken, and even these were ghostly – even these, Gimli could see through.

And then there came the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and Aragorn stepped forward, thrusting his sword into the air.

"This," he roared, his voice like thunder in the empty space, "Is Anduril! Forged from the shards of Narsil – and I am Aragorn, son of Aragorn – heir of Isildur. I summon you now, and bid you listen! The hour has come for you to fulfil your oath, and at last be free after so many years of grief. Fight for me, and I will hold your oath fulfilled. Fight for me, and I will set you free. What say you?"

A deafening silence crashed into the chamber as his voice died down, and Gimli swallowed. He had never heard so profound a silence – even the horses made no noise.

It was how he imagined a tomb to sound.

He could barely breathe.

And then a ghost stepped forward, the shadow of a crumbling crown on his brow. He reached Aragorn, and his fingers rose to brush against Anduril's blade. His eyes widened, and then turned sharply to Aragorn.

"You will free us?"

"You have my word," said Aragorn, lowering his sword and bowing his head. "As soon as the battle at Minas Tirith is ended and the city was free."

The Ghost King paused, and then his green lips parted to reveal a toothless, see-through smile. "It is done," he said. "We fight."

A great swell rose up as the ghosts of the men of the mountain raised their blades and roared, and every hair on Gimli's body stood on end. It was all he could do not to leap into Legolas' arms lie a frightened maiden, and beside him, the horses' eyes were white with fear. But Aragorn was beaming, and he bowed low. "Thank you," he said sombrely. "Thank you. Come – there is no time to lose."

The ghost king inclined his head, and then began to drift swiftly towards another, nearby tunnel. Aragorn followed, and their group began to move again, and Gimli ensured that he remained tightly in the middle of it.

Though Aragorn seemed much happier, Gimli was far from relieved. These ghosts were oath breakers – what was to say that they were not leading them deeper into the mountain, into an ambush? It all seemed too easy, and Gimli could not trust easy.

Especially when the minutes dragged into hours, and the hours became insurmountable, immeasurable, and the torches had long since burnt out. But as the third set of torches dwindled away into darkness, a light began to glow up ahead – the soft, unmistakable light of outdoors. Never had Gimli longed so fiercely to reach it, to be out of a mountain and beneath the open sky. The horses let out soft snorts of relief, and quickened their pace, and Gimli began to count down the moments until he reached fresh air. He expected the countdown to be broken, to feel a ghostly dagger at his throat before he had any chance of seeing the sun again, but nothing happened.

Instead, they poured out onto the mountainside, where mist hung in the air beneath a grey, laden sky, and drizzle drifted miserably down. All Gimli could see was grey – the grey rock of the mountain leading down to grey ground and the grey bank of a river grey in the reflections of the clouds.

Gimli did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful sight. He let his head fall back, and the light rain fall on his face, and his heart sang as he drew in a deep breath.

"I do not think I ever want to go underground again," murmured Legolas beside him, his eyes closed and his head, like Gimli's, tilted towards the rain and sky.

"I'm as close as I'll ever be to agreeing with you on that," Gimli muttered back, slowly dragging his eyes to the others. They, too, looked glad to be out of the darkness of the Paths of the Dead, and colour was returning to the cheeks of the elves even as shapes began to materialise around them. And despite the exhaustion wrought onto his face, Aragorn was smiling as he mounted his horse, and watched an army of green-hued ghosts appear around them.

"Great," Gimli muttered as Legolas pulled him up. "Back on the horse."

"Take heart, Gimli," said Aragorn, and there was a glint in his eye that Gimli would never forget. "For now we ride to Minas Tirith. Now, we ride to war."

 **I hope you liked that chapter, and it wasn't too anti-climactic for you! Do let me know what you thought if you can, I love hearing from you – but for now, onto the next chapter!**


	82. Chapter 82: Shelob's Lair

**Chapter Eighty-Two: Shelob's Lair**

Despite the darkness, and the slippery, razor sharp rocks, and the heavy blanket of fear that surrounded the place, Nelly did not mind the stairs too much. They were so steep that it was just rock climbing, with slightly more convenient hand and foot-holds. It was hard to worry about what was behind or ahead when already you had to worry about where to put your hands next, where to step to make sure that you did not fall. It was also something she was good at, something that she had practised. Something she enjoyed.

The boys did not seem to be enjoying it as much, if the mutters and groans behind her were anything to go by, but Nelly kept climbing. They would call if they needed her, and it was the oldest rule in the book to avoid looking down too much. As the day wore on, the climb grew steeper, and she began to nick herself on the rocks more often. Her ankles collided with ill-placed stone, and the skin on her knees was scraped away by a particularly sharp, overhanging step. Her arms were beginning to ache, and her hands to cramp, but she pushed on, and finally, as the dark day shifted to darker night, she reached the stone ledge at the very top of the staircase.

She was the first to arrive there, save Sméagol, who was crouching by the entrance to the least appealing cave that Nelly had ever seen. Its mouth was a gaping hole with cracked, stony teeth, and great, grey cobwebs hung over the wall. Only a few feet in, the light vanished, and Nelly swallowed.

It certainly looked how she would expect the entrance to Mordor to look.

The thought of going in there made her stomach curl, but it seemed that she was the only one who thought so. Sméagol did not seem nearly as afraid as he had been every other time that he had spoken of Mordor. Instead he seemed almost excited, hopping to and fro on the rocks, and out of the corner of her eye, Nelly thought that she could see the creature smiling.

She turned around, but even as she opened her mouth to ask what he was smiling about, Gollum's face contorted into a frown of concern. She narrowed her eyes and turned away, sitting down to wait for the boys and Toothy to catch up. Frodo was the next to reach her, his cheeks flushed red, though the rest of his face was pale, and grew paler when he saw the entrance to the tunnel. He met Nelly's eyes with a grimace, and sat down beside her, breathing heavily.

Sam was next, as the least confident climber of the group. ("Go behind Frodo, Sam, it'll be easier to catch just one of you if you fall," Bróin had said jovially.) His face was as flushed as Frodo's, and when Nelly helped him up the final few stairs, he all but rolled up. After him came Bróin, with a grin on his face and no sign of weariness.

"Just like a Saturday afternoon at home, hey?" he said, only a little breathless. He turned, and patted on his knees to encourage Toothy up the final few steps. "Atta boy… Good boy…"

If Nelly had to bet on which one of them had enjoyed the climb the least, her money would be on the warg. He had not much liked being forced to the back of the group, but they could not risk him falling, and knocking everyone else down. Nelly had not even been sure that he could be able to climb the stairs, but somehow, Toothy had scrambled his way up, and he clawed his way onto the ledge with the others. He shook himself down from head to tail, and then his beady eyes fell on the entrance to the cave. At once they narrowed, and his hackles rose, and his lips pulled back over his teeth as he snarled.

"It's alright," Bróin murmured, though he did swallow, and take a step away from the cave under the pretence of fondling Toothy's ears. "Good boy. Shh, good boy."

Glad for the excuse to keep her back turned against to Mordor, Nelly stood up and stepped forward, scratching the side of the warg's neck. "I think you enjoyed that even less than Sam did, didn't you? Weren't too fond of being at the back, hey?"

Toothy whimpered and nuzzled at her neck, and Nelly gave a soft laugh.

"Never thought I'd be comfortable with a warg so close to my throat," she murmured, scratching the end of his nose. Then she turned, and looked at Frodo. His eyes were fixed on the cave, and they were full of fear. She swallowed, and stepped over, offering him her hand. She did not speak, but she did not need to. With a sigh, Frodo took her hand and pulled himself onto his feet. Together they turned, and faced the cave.

A waft of warm, stale air stroked Nelly's face, and she grimaced, her toes curling beneath her. Already, she could smell the faint whiff of death, and the tunnel inside was dark as a mine shaft. The walls of the place looked oddly smooth, though they were shrouded with cobwebs and shadows, and that unsettled her. Walls of natural caves were rarely so smooth, but if they were carven tunnels there was a chance that the excavator had been a goblin. And there was a chance that there were goblins still there.

But it was not like they had a choice.

"Come on!" Sméagol insisted, beckoning eagerly. "Come on hobbitses, here we go! Into the tunnel, yes, yes, and then to Mordor, yes, precious."

Slowly, Frodo rose to his feet, and came to Nelly's side, peering into the gloom before them.

"I don't ask anyone to come with me," he murmured, a grey hue to his face that made him look unnervingly like Gollum. "You could take Toothy, ride far from here. Ride home."

"We could," said Bróin evenly. "But we're not going to."

Frodo glanced at Nelly beseechingly, but she smiled and shook her head a little, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"We all know what we signed up for, Frodo. Come on. Let's just get it over with." She took a deep breath, and then plunged herself into the darkness of the caves. At once, the smell hit her – a putrid stench of evil and death that had her plugging her nose with her fingers, and fighting against the instinct to gag. From the sounds of it, Bróin lost that particular fight.

"By Durin," he choked from behind her, "What is that stink?"

A hand closed around Nelly's wrist, and Frodo spoke softly "We'll travel two by two, hand in hand – that way we should be able to reach out to the wall to know where we're going without accidentally splitting up and losing each other if the path forks. Sméagol, will you lead us?"

"Oh yes," crooned Sméagol, and Nelly shivered, pulling her wrist from Frodo's grip so she could properly take his hand. "We will lead you."

With that, the creature turned, scampering down the hall so quickly that Frodo gave a cry.

"Wait – slow down!"

"This way!" Sméagol sang. "This way."

"I don't like this," Bróin muttered.

Frodo sighed. "We don't have to like it." He stepped forward, and Nelly stepped with him, her free hand reaching out to the wall beside her. It was damp, and cold, and a little sticky, but as they moved deeper and deeper into the darkness, she refused to let her fingers leave it. It was her anchor to the outside, her one way of knowing where she had come from. The stench grew stronger as they walked, and Frodo's hand tightened around hers until it was almost painful. She would have complained, if she was not so sure that her grip was just as tight.

And then, the wall disappeared from beneath her fingers.

She stopped, and at one Sam crashed into her from behind.

"Omph!"

Toothy whined, and Nelly took a deep breath. "The tunnel opens up – my wall's spent. There's got to be a fork here, or-"

"Five," said Bróin. "I can just about see five tunnels."

"Great," grumbled Sam. "So which way do we go? Frodo?"

Frodo was very quiet. His hand was clammy in Nelly's, and oddly hot, and she felt him shudder beside her. He did not speak, and after a very pregnant pause, Nelly decided to take matters into her own hands.

"Well, they all smell awful," she sighed. "So there goes Gandalf's advice on picking passageways.."

Sam gave a small laugh. "I don't think Gandalf would've meant to come this way at all."

A spasm of pain shot through Nelly's hand as Frodo clenched it tightly. She sighed, and touched her cheek to his shoulder for a moment. "We'll be alright. We'll be alright. We just need to choose a path, that's all. So, which way do you think we should go?"

No one answered her. Of course no one did. No one had any more of an idea as to where they were or which road to take, or even which direction they were heading in. No one, that was, except –

"Sméagol?" Frodo called. "Sméagol, where are you? Which way do we go?"

There was a pause, a long one, and then Gollum's voice drifted towards them from far away – too far away. "This way, this way! The middle tunnel."

A shiver ran down her spine, and Nelly took a deep breath. She reached out, and tugged Frodo with her as her fingers passed the first doorway, and then the second, in order to reach the wall of the middle path.

"It's here," she whispered, and her lips were so dry that they stuck together for a moment.

"Come on," muttered Frodo, hurrying along the passage. It twisted and turned, and their hands began to glance over side tunnels – dozens of them. That did not surprise her. What surprised her was the size of them. They were great, gaping holes in the walls, tunnels almost as large as the one they were in, and she wondered how many there were – how deep they ran.

The dark was stifling, and the scent of death was shoving itself down her throat, and her heart was racing to beat even faster than her feet. She could feel Frodo's clammy palm within hers, and she could hear Bróin and Sam hurrying along behind them, still close, and she could hear the heavy panting of Toothy behind them, but it was so dark that it felt like being alone. She could see nothing – if she closed her eyes it made no difference.

 _This must be what it's like to be blind,_ she thought, shivering. Her ears strained all the more, listening for any new sound, any sign of danger.

Toothy began to whine, his pitch so high it almost hurt her ears, and their pace grew quicker and quicker. Nelly's heart beat began to race against her feet, and her lungs drew in shorter, sharper breaths.

 _"Remember, kid, if you can help it, don't get desperate. Desperate can make you faster, sure, but it can also make you stupid. Desperate can make you dead, if you ain't careful."_

Nori's words drew her up short, and Nelly paused.

"What? What is it?" Frodo demanded, his voice tight.

"Nothing," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. "Nothing… I just… let's not lose our heads, alright?"

"Alright," replied Frodo. "But let's keep moving, too."

She nodded, though she knew that no one except maybe Bróin could see, and began to walk again, keeping her footsteps measured.

And then her fingers touched something sticky.

She gasped and recoiled, and in the same moment Frodo cursed.

"What is that?"

"What's what?" asked Sam, his voice disembodied by the dark.

"There's something on the walls," she said, stretching out her fingers to get a better feel. "It's sticky, and stringy – almost like – Oh, Mahal…"

"What?" repeated Sam, his voice higher than before. "Almost like what?"

"Faramir said this pass was called Cirith Ungol," she breathed, turning to the darkness where Frodo was standing in the hopes that he was about to prove her wrong. "What does Ungol mean in elvish?"

Sam gave a groan, and it was Bróin's turn to demand answers.

"What does it mean? Nelly, for the love of Durin, this isn't time to practise-"

"Spider," Frodo whispered. "It means spider."

An ear-piercing howl ripped the air apart, and Nelly could not help but scream as she turned. She could see nothing, but Bróin clearly could, and he cried out.

"Toothy! Come back! Toothy!"

"Shh!" Frodo let go of Nelly's hand and lunged back. "Bróin, we can't risk so much noise. He'll find us, I'm sure he will. Let him go."

Bróin moaned, and then Frodo grabbed Nelly's wrist once more, tugging her onwards.

"Quickly!" he ordered. "Stay together! Sméagol! Sméagol, where are you?"

There was no reply, only silence, and their sharp, staggered breaths as they hurried blindly through the tunnels. They needed light – Nelly knew it – without torches it would be only a matter of time before someone ran into the wall, or worse – into a giant spider.

Or caught their foot on some awkward debris and flung themselves into a side tunnel.

Which was, of course, exactly what happened.

Her left foot came down on something sharp, and she gasped, and even as she lurched forward something else caught against her shin. Her hand was wrenched from Frodo's as she tumbled forwards, and her arms flew out to the sides in a desperate attempt to slow her fall – but she did not fall far. Something caught her – something large, and soft and sticky. With a cry of disgust she tried to back away, but whatever it was clung to her legs, and no matter how she struggled, it barely moved at all, other than swaying from front to back, and making her feel rather ill. And then she realised what she must have fallen into, and her stomach did a backflip.

"Get me out!" she gasped. "Frodo, Bróin-"

"We're right here," came Bróin's voice from behind her. "Maybe I should cut her down, Frodo? I can see a little better than you, after all."

She heard steps and shuffling behind her, and then felt a hand on the small of her back.

"I've got ya, Nell," murmured Bróin softly. Then, she felt a tugging beneath her right arm, and the grip of the web weakened a little. She wrenched her arm backwards again, and Bróin swore, ducking as her elbow broke free, and missed his head by inches. "Whoa! Let me cut you loose before you knock me out!"

"Sorry," she mumbled, her cheeks warming.

A faint howl rose from somewhere deep in the tunnels, and cold washed over Nelly. Bróin froze, and then began hacking at the web by her legs with twice the speed.

"I hear something!" warned Sam. "But I can't see, I can't see anything."

Frodo gave a gasp, and Nelly heard his pack thud to the ground. She could hear him fumbling behind her, but more importantly she could move her arms, and her legs, and she managed to wiggle her left leg free entirely.

"I found it," Frodo breathed. "Aiya Eärendil elenion ancalima!"

At once, light bloomed behind Nelly, a silvery white-blue glow like pure starlight, and it revealed the corpse of a rotting orc hanging less than a handspan from Nelly's face.

"Kakhuf inbarathrag!" she shrieked, stumbling backwards so quickly that she tore the rest of herself free.

If any part of Nelly had thought that she would feel better being able to see the tunnel, it would have been wrong. Completely wrong. Great cobwebs draped over the walls and stretched across the tunnels, and some bound the corpses of goblins and birds and rats, dangling them from the ceiling like trophies. When she turned towards Frodo, Nelly saw a skeleton on the ground behind him, clutching an old, twisted sword. That must have been what tripped her…

"Wow," Bróin breathed in awe, and for a moment Nelly wondered if he had lost his mind. She turned to ask him if that were the case, but then she saw that his eyes were fixed not on their surroundings, but by the starlight clutched in Frodo's hand. "That's beautiful. When – how – did Galadriel give you that?"

Frodo nodded, but before he could speak, Sam gave a choking gasp that made the hair on Nelly's arms stand on end.

Slowly, Nelly turned to see whatever it was that Sam had spotted, and the moment she did, her knees gave out beneath her.

Spider.

Big, _big_ , spider.

It was but an inch smaller than the tunnel itself, so big that there was no way beneath or around, no way past, and its gaping jaw was open as it hissed, and edged towards them.

Even as her knees hit the ground, and he boys let out cries of despair around her, Nelly grappled with the blade on her belt and scrambled back onto her feet.

"Go!" she gasped, grabbing Sam and dragging him back. The spider lunged, and they stumbled backwards, but as he did so, Frodo raised his fist into the air, and light shone on the inky beads of the spider's black eyes. The creature let out a hideous, shrieking hiss and drew away, and Nelly darted down a nearby side-tunnel.

The boys were on her heels as she fled, dodging dangling corpses and vaulting over stones, but there was no escaping the tacky mesh of webs that stretched out from the walls, fawning over their clothes and slowing them down.

Every time she glanced over her shoulder, Nelly saw that Frodo looking back too, holding the Phial of Galadriel threateningly towards the spider, which seemed to shrink whenever the light hit it. But it was growing braver, and dancing into shadows that were less and less black, and Nelly knew that Frodo could not run forever with his eyes over his shoulder.

They had to get out.

They had to find the way out.

She knew that Mordor was east, but she had no sense of direction, no idea where she was, and she knew that there was no logic that could save her now. A dead end loomed before her, with a passage to both left and right on either side, and there was absolutely nothing that could tell her which path would be better. No logic, or even educated guesswork.

All she could do was pray as she leant into the corner and took the right-side tunnel. She heard the boys behind her, heard the hiss of the great spider, and then skidded to a halt.

Webs.

At least a dozen great webs, each spanning the entire passageway, and leeching out to cling to each other, lay between them and escape.

She shook her head, and with a growl raised her sword, hacking at the first lot of webbing. "Help me! Frodo, keep that light on it! Quick!"

Sam tore at the webs with his hands as Bróin and Nelly cut a path through, but Frodo's frantic warnings and every glance over her shoulder told Nelly that the spider was getting bolder – getting closer.

The light was beginning to pulse, growing fainter, and then stronger, and then fainter again, and every time it grew fainter, the spider grew closer.

"Hurry!" Frodo cried, lunging forward to give a wave of his sword, and the spider darted back. And then it lunged forward, snapping its jaw –

"Stand back!" Bróin ordered, tearing Nelly's eyes away from the beast before them as he sheathed his sword and took a few steps back towards Frodo. Before she could ask what he was doing, Bróin, hunched his neck down and gave a roar, charging shoulder first through the weakened webs. Nelly's heart seized, but whether due to the work of their blades or Bróin's sheer strength, the webs could not hold him. Instead, they ripped apart and all but floated to the sides of the tunnel, dangling from the walls in defeat and leaving a hobbit-sized hole for the others to dart through.

"Come on!" Bróin urged, and Nelly darted after him, easily batting away the few stubborn wisps of web remaining. She heard Sam panting behind her, heard Frodo cry out from behind, "It's gone!"

Nelly glanced over her shoulder, and sure enough, the tunnel behind Frodo was empty.

"Never mind that!" demanded Sam, shoving Nelly forward and then lurching back to grab Frodo by the collar. "It won't be gone for long, I'm sure!"

"I think I can see a light!" called Bróin eagerly, and Nelly felt a breath of relief. They could make it yet.

After a moment, she saw it too, a very faint glow ahead, and they sped towards it so fast that it felt like her feet were flying. The arch of the end of the tunnel came into sight, but it did not look right – there was still darkness behind it, and the light was still too weak to be day, and her gut began to curl.

She narrowed her eyes as they grew closer, and she began to see what looked like a chamber in the rocks, but she barely had time to register what it was before Bróin stepped out into it.

And the moment that he did, a great black shadow barrelled into him, tearing him away from her.

"Bróin!" Her scream tore at the inside of her throat, but already it was history, and she threw herself out into the chamber, her eyes widening in horror. The spider had found them, had headed them off, and it had charged Bróin – and its stinger was lodged in his arm.

A lightning storm of thoughts charged though her mind, and she seized one, charging the spider from what she could best guess was its blind-spot, raising her sword to strike.

The beast side-stepped and dodged the blow, and Nelly span with the motion of her sword to stop its momentum from throwing her off her feet. Already, the spider was turning back towards her, aiming its stinger, but Nelly was too quick, and Sam and Frodo were with her. They dodged and jabbed at the spider, distracting it away from Nelly and Bróin.

A shriek pierced both the air and Nelly's ears alike as Sam got a swipe in on one of the beast's back legs, and it gave Nelly the opening that she needed. The spider's legs seemed quick as an arrow in flight, but Nelly was just as fast. She ducked beneath the beast's belly and flung herself at the wall, reaching Bróin just as his knees gave way.

"Bróin!" she gasped, grabbing his uninjured arm, and he groaned, his eyes darting up and glazing over, and desperately trying to focus.

"I'm… alright…" He choked, but he knew it was a lie as much as she did, terror shone from his hazy eyes as vomit began bubbling from his mouth.

"You will be," she promised, glancing up to where Frodo and Sam were still distracting the spider. They did not need her. Not yet. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Just keep breathing, alright? Keep breathing for me, just for me, keep breathing, Bróin."

His chest heaved as he dragged in deep, wrenching breaths, and he clutched at Nelly's arm with a sweaty, fumbling grip. "It… _hurts_ …"

"It's alright, you're alright, you're going to be fine," she insisted, desperately looking at the passages around them. They needed to know which way was out, they had to hope that if the beast hated the light the sun would be enough to save them. Overhead was a small hole in the roof of the tunnel where the sun was seeping through, but it was too high to hope to climb there if Bróin was unable to walk.

Was Bróin unable to walk?

She looked back at him, her heart jolting as she saw his flickering eyes. "Hey, hey! Stay with me, Bróin, stay awake, now!" she ordered, tapping his cheek gently. "Come on, Bróin."

His grip on her arm tightened, and he grunted, dragging himself up onto his feet. "C'm'n," he mumbled, "Got… go…"

Though she wished that she could tell him to sit and rest, but she knew that they had to get out, that Bróin had to move, so she nodded, steadying him as best she could. "That's it, that's it, come on Bróin."

His head lolled into a nod, but then his eyes widened, and he gave a choked cry, and Nelly turned just in time to see Sam fly into the wall, and land motionless on the ground.

She and Frodo screamed as one, and when Sam did not move, the light of the phial in Frodo's hand faded to a soft, flickering glow.

At once, the spider struck, and Frodo disappeared beneath the bulk of the beast. Leaving Bróin clawing at the wall for support, Nelly raised her sword, but before she could reach the spider, something crashed into her from behind, and a pair of wiry, grey legs wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. The hands came next, closing around her throat and squeezing, and the reality struck her like a boulder to the chest.

Gollum.

He knew, he knew about the spider, and he wanted them to get caught. He wanted them to die.

He wanted the ring.

He had knowingly, willingly, led them to their deaths.

Now his hands were a vice around her neck, and he was going to strangle the life out of her himself.

Well. She had only one thing to say about that.

 _"Not… bloody… likely!"_ she growled, throwing herself backwards and smashing Gollum against the hard, rock wall of the cave. He gave a screech, and the grip on her neck loosened a little, giving her a chance to get in a little more breath. Anger ripping from her in a roar, Nelly flung herself back again, twice, and she heard a sickening crunch, and Gollum's legs fell away from her. Quick as death she turned, raising her sword, but again Gollum robbed her of the chance to strike, fleeing into one of the other tunnels with a squawk. and she raised her sword.

She lurched after him, but then she remembered what he had pulled her away from, and her heart sank.

Frodo.

For a fraction of a section, she stood frozen, too afraid that she would see all three of her boys dead if she turned, but she forced herself to spin anyway. Frodo was on his stomach, scrambling away from the spider, but it was looming above him, and the stinger was coming down –

"Back you devil!" yelled Sam, his voice trembling, and he raised his shield hand. Nelly had less than a second to glimpse the glass of Galadriel's vial before it began to glow, and then it shone, white and pure, and searingly bright. The spider shrieked as though it were being pierced by a thousand arrows, and curled in on itself, backing away down on of the passages. It hissed furiously at them, and its jaw gaped one last time, and then it was swallowed by the darkness.

"Frodo!" gasped Sam, but Frodo was already on his feet.

"I'm alright," he breathed, pale as death as he clasped Sam's arm. "Are you hurt? Nelly?"

"I'm alright," she called, reaching Bróin's side. To her surprise, he was still on his feet, and his pain-glazed eyes scoured her face.

"You…. Sure?"

"I'm fine," she promised, taking his good arm and looping it over her shoulder. "I swear, I'm fine. We need to get you out of here."

"There's only one way to go. We came from that way, and the spider went that way," Frodo said, his voice trembling as he stood on the other side of Bróin. He wound his arm around the young dwarf's waist, helping Nelly support his weight. "Sam, you go first. Galadriel should have given the light to you – you seem to use it best."

"Now that I disagree with, but this is no time to argue," muttered Sam. "Come on."

He led them down the last passage, and silence shrouded them, swallowing everything but Bróin's rasping breaths, and dull thump of his stilted, stumbling footsteps. He could not move fast, but he was moving, and that was something. He had to keep moving. Had to keep breathing.

He had to.

If he stopped –

Nelly gritted her teeth and forced her eyes to stop her tears before they could start. She had to focus, had to keep moving.

And then she saw it – light. It was pale and grey, and not at all like the light from Frodo's glass, but as they hurried towards it, it grew stronger, and the tunnel's edge grew sharper, and they began to see outside.

For a horrible moment, Nelly thought that they had gone all the way through the tunnels, only to end up right where they had started. She could catch a glimpse of a tall dark tower, and if it turned out to be Minas Morgul – if they had come all this way for nothing –

But they had not. When the tunnel finally surrendered to the outside, it was not the Morgul Vale that they saw. Instead, they came out to grey rock and ash, and it was as much of a maze as inside was. Over the rocks, she could see the top of a black tower, but its shape was different to Minas Morgul, and it looked to be a little further away.

"Quickly now," said Sam darkly. "That spider's still around somewhere, I don't doubt, and Stinker, too!"

"Toothy," mumbled Bróin, and Nelly shuddered as he retched, and vomited all down his new tunic.

"Stop – Sam, wait!" said Frodo, and Nelly rubbed Bróin's back as he shuddered, his head dropping onto her shoulder.

"No... wait," Bróin insisted, shaking his head slowly. "Keep… goin'… Toothy?"

"Toothy will follow us," Nelly promised, though she had no idea whether or not her words had a chance of being true. Carefully, she and Frodo manoeuvred Bróin around the sick on the ground, following Sam's lead as quickly as he could. It was a good lead to follow – Sam was careful, very careful, and much cleverer than he gave himself credit for. When the grim pathway passed through a crevice between two high stones, he checked both sides before creeping through, and then he signalled the others to follow.

But Sam did not look up.

With nothing but a shadow for a warning, the spider swung down from above, and before Nelly could even blink, its sting was embedded deep in Frodo's stomach. Before Nelly could draw breath to scream, the spider drew back, quick as lightning, and then struck again, plunging its poison straight into Bróin's gut. Frodo collapsed to the ground, and as a moment later as the spider drew back, Bróin fell beside him, and a scream of denial and anguish burst from Nelly's throat, even as she realised that she was next, that the spider was drawing back –

And then with a roar so vicious she could not believe it was him, Sam threw himself at the spider, and his sword came down. The spider screeched, and he struck again, and again, and the spider backed away, writhing in on itself and falling over its legs on the way back into the tunnel. The darkness overwhelmed it, and then there was a final, ear-piercing screech, and then there was silence.

Its stinger lay on the ground in a pool of black blood, an eerie, black vapour rising from it into the air.

Nelly could not breathe.

Her chest was rising and falling, and quickly, but no air was moving in or out of her lungs, and she could not make herself take a breath. She could only look down, and see Bróin and Frodo, face down on the filthy ground.

Bróin's eyes were open.

Unseeing.

There was no scream that would come. No howl or roar or wail – she could not make so much as a whimper. Her knees buckled, the stone scraping the skin from them as she landed, but she did not feel it. She only felt the cold, clammy skin of Bróin's neck beneath her fingers.

She only felt nothing where she should feel his pulse.

"They're not…" gasped Sam, struggling to breathe himself as he tumbled over to them. "They can't – no, _no!"_

Nelly shook her head slowly. Sam was wrong. Any moment, any second, Bróin's eyes would shift into focus, and he would groan, and maybe puke, but he would roll over and stand up and say how much his gut hurt. In just a heartbeat's time, Frodo would shake his head and wrap his arms around his stomach, looking rather green, and very much alive, and they would stumble away.

Sam did not need to fall beside Frodo, to sob and rock him in his arms. Frodo was not dead – his unseeing eyes were just resting. He was about to take a breath, about to wipe the foam from his lips and cough up the rest from his lungs. The bile pooling beneath Bróin's lips was just the last of the poison, and it was going to be gone, and he was going to spit the acid out with a grimace that would make Nelly laugh, and he was going to blink away the terror frozen into his sightless eyes, and he was going to be fine. It was only the trembling of Nelly's own fingers that stopped her from feeling Bróin's pulse, only the tears in her eyes that prevented her from seeing his chest rise and fall.

It had to be.

Sam had to be wrong.

He had to be wrong.

Her fingers splayed out, moving down from Bróin's neck to his shoulder, and she shook him, hard. He did not move. She rolled him over onto his back and pressed her palm against his cheek, but even as her finger brushed his hair out of his eyes, he did not so much as blink.

But he had to move. He had to. She shook him again, harder, and she tapped his cheeks and tweaked his nose, but nothing happened.

"Bróin – Bróin! Wake up. Come on, come on, wake up!"

"Nelly..." Sam's voice was soft and broken and pleading, and she did not care. Not one bit.

Her eyes burnt and stung beneath her tears, and her voice stumbled around the lump in her throat, "Stop it, Bróin, just wake up! Just get up, please, don't leave me. Please don't leave me, please, wake up! Wake up!"

A hand rested on her shoulder, but she ignored it, trying to rub life into Bróin's icy palm.

"Wake up. Wake up, please, please…"

With a sob, Sam wrapped his arms around her from behind, pulling her towards him and resting his chin on her head. "He's gone, Nelly. They're gone."

"No," she moaned, her eyes moving to Frodo. His eyes were closed, and she gasped. "Frodo – he blinked, he moved-"

"No," whispered Sam, his voice breaking around sobs he did nothing to hide. "I, I closed his eyes, Nelly. He's gone. They're gone."

Nelly's voice rose towards a wail. "You're lying!"

Sam said nothing in his defence. He just held her tighter, and pressed his cheek against her hair, rocking her back and forth in his arms.

Just like he had rocked Frodo.

And Nelly realised that Bróin was not going to blink. Frodo was not going to roll over.

They were gone.

A feeling of emptiness overcame her, hollowing her from head to toe, and bleeding every bit of strength from her body. Her body fell limp against Sam, and she felt him hold her tighter, felt him press his cheek against her hair. And she felt her ribs crush in around her lungs, and splinter through everything inside them. She did not even have the strength to draw the breath needed to cry.

"Breathe, Nelly," whimpered Sam, his tears soaking her hair. "Please, breathe, Nelly. You can't leave me, too."

A sob broke free from her battered lungs, and she gasped a breath, grabbing onto Sam's arms tightly. She did not know how long they cried together, how long they spent crumpled on the cold ground of Mordor beside the bodies of their friends. Their family. But she knew that her ears pricked up, and she heard footsteps, and halted her sobs with a rasping breath.

Orcs.

At once her teeth set on edge and she crawled to her feet, desperate to strike, to kill _something,_ to avenge Frodo and her Bróin, but Sam grabbed her arm and began to drag her back. She opened her mouth, but he clamped a hand over it and pulled her back to the edge of the cave, dragging her to her knees to hide behind a large rock.

"We don't know how many there are!" he hissed, holding out his hand. Nelly looked down, and her eyes widened. The Ring was there, sitting on Sam's palm, looking so beautiful and innocent.

It looked like it could not possibly have been the thing that just stole her Frodo and her Bróin's lives from them. From her.

Sam shoved it down his shirt, and she saw the chain around his neck. Two chains – one silver, and one gold. As her eyes narrowed, Sam's filled with tears, and he showed her a familiar, mithril shield hanging from the silver chain.

"I'm going to give it back to Thorin," he mumbled almost silently. "If we ever get the chance to see him again. Frodo – Frodo would want it to go back to Thorin."

Biting back a sob, Nelly nodded, glancing back at the boy's broken bodies. "We can't let the orcs – you know what they will do to them!"

"But if we get caught?" Sam whispered back. "If they take the Ring? Then it's over, Nelly, and it's not just us who'll be dead. It'll be the whole world. We – we promised, didn't we? That we'd keep going, no matter what?"

Nelly closed her eyes, the skin of her arms beginning to break beneath the piercing grip of her fingernails. Yes. They had promised that. And if Sam – if trembling, terrified, heart-broken Sam could live with that, she would too.

For as long as it took to get the job done, at least.

She did not think she wanted to live for any longer than that.

The voices of the orcs drew nearer, close enough to hear words, and she closed her eyes, trying to concentrate.

"... so, Shagrat, you 'aven't said. What brings you up this neck o' the woods, anyway? Takes a lot to tempt you from your tower nowadays."

There was the harsh bark of a laugh, and the hair on her arms stood on end. "Thought you'd'a known, Gorbag. Word came from Minas Morgul – _Nazgûl uneasy, possible spies on the stairs –_ they said. And eh-oh – looks like there might'a been some truth in that!"

Nelly's gut churned, and she peeked through a gap in the stones before her. They were coming around the corner now, and to her grim horror, she counted at least thirty. She and Sam would struggle to take on thirty armed orcs alone.

But the orcs had seen Frodo and Bróin, and more than anything she wanted to charge them, to force them away and stop them from desecrating her boy's bodies –

"Well blow me down," said the first orc, the one she guessed was Gorbag. "What 'ave we got 'ere? This'un's a dwarf, that's for sure, but what's this little thing? An elf runt?" He kicked his metal tipped boot against Frodo's head, and Nelly heard Sam growl softly as her own fists clenched.

"No," said Shagrat, "No, I reckon that's one o' those halflings the scum of the Lonely Mountain took in. Ain't you 'eard the rumours? Vicious little things, they are by all accounts, and quiet as death. They ride to war on the backs o' wolves, and can disappear in the blink of an eye."

Nelly and Sam shared a grim grin at that description, and Gorbag seemed to find it equally amusing.

"Ha! I doubt that. This runt don't look like a warrior. Now, a spy, maybe. You said you heard word from the Nazgûl?"

Shagrat spat on the ground. "We did. Curse 'em – not that that's any use, now, them being His favourite. But much as I hate 'em, they 'ave good enough instincts – if these scum-rats ain't spies, I'll swallow my sword."

"Wait a sec, what's that?" demanded Gorbag, and Nelly froze as heavy footsteps stomped towards them. She tore her face away from the gap in the stone and hand clamped over her mouth, staring at the terrified Sam, but when Gorbag spoke again, he was still several feet away. "By the great eye… wha' is _that?"_

There were several more heavy footsteps, and then Shagrat let out a low whistle. "I don't reckon our little spies came in alone," he said softly, dangerously, and Nelly and Sam shrank further back into the darkness of the cave. "That's old Shelob's stinger. She's not gonna be best pleased – ain't no one managed to even stick a pin in 'er before! There's a warrior about, you mark my words. A large 'un – an elf, I reckon, or a damned big man."

 _Well, that's an entertaining description of Sam,_ she thought, glancing at the spider's black blood still oozing off of his sword.

Gorbag snarled. "Well, that's just great. Where were you, Shagrat? Ain't your boys supposed to be watching the stairs?"

"We were watching," Shagrat growled back, "and we saw funny business alright. Lights, and shouting. But Shelob was on the hunt, and there's no getting between Her Ladyship and her pray."

"That's as maybe, you best hope you and your boys catch this warrior," said Gorbag. "Or you'll be in great trouble."

Shagrat spat at the ground again. "We'll find 'im – if Shelob hasn't got 'im first."

"I don't reckon she did," said Gorbag. "I reckon if she'd got 'im, and 'e was in 'er larder, she'd've already dragged this scum back with 'er too. She don't waste much in the way o' fresh meat. Whoever this warrior is, he don't seem to care much for these'uns. Just left 'em lying there – typical elvish trick. Still – all the better for us. One each, eh, Shagrat, that sounds fair."

Nelly stiffened, but Shagrat seemed to think about as much of that plan as she did.

"Not likely," he snarled. "They'll 'ave to be taken straight to the tower – those are the orders. Orders from Lugbúrz, no less. All spies caught are to be taken to the tower, and stripped. All they got 'as to go to the Eye, and all prisoners is to stay in the tower – alive – until either He calls for 'em, or He comes Himself."

Gorbag laughed. "Well, you've failed that one already, old Shagrat! These two're already dead!"

"Oh, Gorbag, you were sounding so clever," sneered Shagrat. "All your talk of warriors and fresh meat, and you missed the main point. Old Shelob – her poison don't kill. She doesn't eat carrion, and she doesn't drink cold blood. These fellows ain't dead. She jabs 'em, and they go limp as boned fish, so she can hang 'em up and feed when she chooses. Your warrior must'a got at 'er before she could wrap cords around 'em."

Any warmth that had remained in Nelly's body left her, and the blood left her face so quickly that her head began to spin.

Not dead.

Not dead.

How could she be so _stupid?_ She knew of the tale of Mirkwood, she knew how the spiders had knocked out the dwarves and saved them for later, she _knew_ it.

But she had forgotten. She had done what Nori had always told her never to do, and lost her head to fear and grief. And now, Frodo and Bróin were lying unarmed and unconscious, at the utter mercy of more than three dozen orcs.

What had she done? What had she _done?_

"Well, in that case you best get 'em to the tower quick," said Gorbag. "I don't reckon Shelob'll be too happy if she comes back to find you pilfering 'er larder. And while you're at it, you best get on catching that warrior. There ain't no point sending word to Lugbúrz that you've caught the kittens but lost the cat."

Panic rose hot in Nelly's throat, and she shifted off of her knees and into a crouch. They had to move now – they had to at least _try_ and take out these monsters, to _try_ and stop Frodo and Bróin from being taken, they had to try –

But Sam seized her wrist and shook his head with wide eyes. His own horror and guilt were wrought into his face, but he signed fiercely to her in Iglishmêk. _"No! There are too many! We should follow, figure out a plan!"_

 _"No time!"_ she signed back. _"Once they get into the tower, they're good as dead! How're we supposed to break into an orc tower, in Mordor? There's just two of us! Now, while we have the chance of surprise! We have to try!"_

Sam bit his lip, but nodded, and pressed his face against the crack in the rock. Nelly peered through over his head, her heart racing faster and faster in her chest. Already, the orcs had Bróin and Frodo in their arms – already, they were carrying them away.

"Now!" she whispered, but even as the word left her lips there was a sickening thud, and Sam crumpled to the ground beneath her. A hand clamped over her mouth and nose, and another wrapped around her neck, squeezing until she fell against the rock before her.

Then, it squeezed harder, and the world began to grow blurry, and dark. She could hear the blood pounding through her ears, feel her frantic scrambling do nothing to free her – again, there were legs wrapped tightly around her arms. Again, she could not move enough to use her sword.

"Nasty hobbitses," Gollum whispered in her ear, squeezing tighter still and choking the last of the air from her lungs. "Should have just given us the precious, yes…"

There was no air in her now, and she knew it would be a matter of seconds before she closed her eyes for the last time. She had no air, and no hope.

But she did have her fury.

And she was Nelly Took, and she would not go down without a fight.

She let herself fall limp, and held it as long as she could. Gollum was still choking her, and she knew she had a window of only seconds before her feigned death became true. When she could not bear it any longer, she smashed her head back into Gollum's, and he gasped, his grip loosening just a little in surprise.

Just a little.

Just enough.

She sucked in a deep breath, and it burnt all the way down into her lungs, and then she twisted out of Gollum's grip. She took another breath, trying to stop her head from spinning, but there was no time to dispel the stars before her eyes. Relying only on instinct and anger, she lurched forward into Gollum, knocking him to the ground. He growled, and tried to close his hands around her throat, but he had lost the element of surprise, and that was the only thing that could have ever allowed him to win a fight with Pimpernel Took.

She seized his arms and thrust against the ground, crawling forward to hold them in place with her knees. And then she sat on his chest, and stared at the wide, furious eyes of the creature that had betrayed them.

"You…" she whispered, fury shaking her voice. "You tried to kill us all. You let the spider reach us – you let them take Frodo and Bróin!"

"It… was… the precious!" Gollum gasped, but Nelly shook her head.

"No. It was you," she murmured, and as she thought back on all she knew of Gollum's past, and all that he had done to Bróin, and to Frodo, and to Sam, she made up her mind. "You killed your cousin at the mere sight of that thing – but you did not kill my cousin, and you _will_ not. I am going to get him back, and we are going to destroy the ring, and you will _never_ touch my family again!"

Whether it was fury or fear or shock that made her shake so badly, Nelly did not know. She had always sworn that she would never kill anything other than an orc, unless it be in the heat of battle, or in a hunt for food. But even as guilt tried to twist her gut, resolution quenched it, and she clamped her hand over Gollum's mouth, and raised her sword.

His eyes widened in fear, and she hesitated, but her eyes glanced at Sam, stirring only a little on the floor before her, and to the gap in the rocks. Already, the footsteps of the orcs were far away.

If she showed Gollum the mercy that Bilbo had, he would hurt them again. Of that, she was sure. She wished that she had Bilbo's choice, that she could walk away with her hands and her conscious clean, but she knew that was only fantasy.

"I will always do anything to protect my family," she whispered.

 _Even if it makes me less than half of the hobbit Bilbo is._

She took a deep breath and made sure that her left hand was secure over Gollum's mouth. If he screamed, he would kill Sam, too.

And she let out the breath.

And drove her sword between Gollum's ribs, and into his heart.

And in less than a minute, with a sea of his lifeblood beneath him, and his bulbous eyes glassed over, Gollum was dead.

 **Duh duh duuuuh! I hope you enjoyed that (mammoth) chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it! This piece truly helped me to enjoy my writing again, though some of it also nearly made me cry, tbh.**

 **Please do let me know what you think if you can, it means the absolute world to me, and I love to know if you have any theories/anything you want to see.**

 **Take care!**


	83. Chapter 83:Potential Problems with Pairs

**Hey there! Sorry for another delay - again, real life is pretty busy right now.**

 **As ever, please forgive any mistakes here.**

 **Chapter Eighty Three: Potential Problems with Pairs**

"Y'know, lass, this doesn't go any easier if you hold your breath."

A small, sheepish smile tried to twitch onto Dís' cheeks, but nerves brushed it away after one feeble moment. She forced herself to breathe out, and then in again, but it was hard. Very hard.

It had been a long time since she had lain on her back in the Royal Healing Halls, with her stomach exposed and a healer and a midwife standing over her. But it had not been long enough. The last time she was here, Thora had taken Dís' hands gently in her own, and softly told her that they could no longer feel the baby moving, nor hear any trace of a heartbeat.

Dís took a deep breath, trying to banish the memory to the darkest depths of her mind. It would not help her. Besides, the baby seemed to be engaged in a vendetta against her belly button, kicking at it ceaselessly. They were definitely still moving. Definitely still there.

But Dís was afraid, so afraid, that something would be wrong. If it was, she did not want to know. She was not sure she could stand it.

"Did you not hear me, Dís? Breathe, woman. You'll raise your blood pressure," chided Óin, prodding her rather unceremoniously on the nose as if she was a little girl again.

She raised her eyebrows. "When did my sweet little cousin grow into such a mannerless brute?"

"That's more like it," said Óin, grinning in satisfaction and pulling out his measuring tape. "Now, when do you think you fell pregnant? How long ago, now?"

Dís sighed, leaning back a little as Óin positioned his hands on her stomach and began to stretch his tape across it. "It must have been in Rivendell, on the way to the Shire. So, July, perhaps late June? It feels like a lifetime ago… What month is it now?"

"January. The 19th, to be exact," replied Thora, striding over with a steaming cup of lavender tea. "Here. This should help calm you down, though you ought to know by now that we don't bite unless bitten first."

Though she rolled her eyes a little, Dís also gave her friend a grateful smile, and took the tea.

"But that would make you seven months along at most," said Óin, a puzzled frown on his face as he checked, and then double checked, his measurements. "You're surprisingly large for seven months, all things considered."

Dís frowned, trying to keep her composure. "All things considered?"

"Well, the fact that you ought to have another five months to go," Óin said, furrowing his brow. "Though, from what Ellie Took has told me over the years, hobbits tend to carry for nine months, give or take, which'd just give another two or three – now that would make a _little_ more sense with the size you are, but hobbit babes are also typically smaller, and even for a dwarven child with two or three more months, the child's a big'un."

"That's… that's not normally a bad thing…" said Dís, trying not to state it as a question. Thora patted her hand gently.

"No, pet, it's rarely a bad thing. Let's see whereabouts baby's resting, shall we?"

"Somewhere that they can inflict maximum damage upon my belly-button," grumbled Dís, playing up her indignation, and Thora laughed.

"I can feel that," she said, her hands resting over Dís' stomach. They pushed down, gently, applying pressure here and there to get a better feel of the baby's positioning. After a long moment, she nodded at Óin, gently tapping the right side of Dís' stomach.

He nodded, reaching into his kit and pulling out a Midwife's Horn, pressing the cool metal against Dís' bare skin, and putting his ear to the other end. For a long time, he was silent.

A very long time.

"Óin," she said, in the slowest, most controlled voice she could conjure. "Is everything alright?"

Óin stood up, his face grey, and Dís' heart began to pound desperately against her ribs. "I – I can't hear anything, lass, I can't-"

The child in Dís' womb gave a particularly strong kick, and even before Dís could open her mouth to panic Thora gave a snort and ushered him away.

"You're deaf as a damn post, Óin, of course you can't hear anything. I felt that child move not two minutes ago, of course there'll be a heartbeat. Now you're the one who'll be raising her blood pressure, by the Valar." Thora tutted, taking the horn and adjusting its position herself. She leant down, and her hair tickled Dís' stomach as she listened.

And listened.

And listened.

Dís began to count the seconds herself, and when she reached a hundred and twenty, she whispered, "Thora?"

Her friend stood up and turned, taking Dís' hands in hers.

"No," Dís murmured, shaking her head. "No-"

"No, no, don't panic!" said Thora quickly, squeezing Dís' hands with a smile. "There is most definitely a heartbeat there. Definitely. In fact, I am quite certain that I heard two heartbeats."

Dís froze. "T-two?"

Thora nodded, a smile on her face. "Two. Now, both sets of heartbeats are going rather fast – quite a bit faster than I would like them to be – but they both sound strong, and consistent, and there's a good, steady rhythm to them both."

All the air fled from Dís' lungs, and it felt she was falling from a height higher than eagles could fly. The world was spinning, and she was dropping, and she felt weightless, and she could barely breathe, and wonder and fear and exhilaration were soaring through her, and she could see nothing but light above her –

"Breathe, Dís!" barked Óin, prodding her arm.

"Twins?" she gasped, seizing Thora's arm. "Two babies?"

Thora smiled, nodding. "I think so. I am certain of it – there are two heartbeats."

Two heartbeats. Two babies.

 _Two babies?_

"By the Valar," she breathed, staring up at Thora. "But… but I haven't even been able to bear one child to Bilbo – let alone _two…"_

Thora's smile faded, and she sighed, looking at Óin for a moment. "We can make no promises, Dís, you know that. And it is true that twins pose a greater risk to your health and their own – but for now, they sound strong. They are moving, their hearts are steady… Given how far along you are, I would say they are also of a good size, and we will give them every chance."

Dís winced. "Bed rest?"

Thora shook her head. "No, not completely – I do not think it would help. You should get lots of rest, and lots of sleep as well, but it will be important for you to be strong enough to deliver them both. I say an hour of easy exercise every day – walking, or swimming, perhaps, something that will get your heart-rate up a little, but not push you, and an hour or so of stretching besides that. What's more, we will monitor your diet – you should have plenty of red meat and vegetables to ensure your blood is strong. Lots of vegetables, given that they're half-hobbit babes. And try to keep your stress down."

Dís laughed. "Well, you were making feasible suggestions for a while, there, Thora."

Her friend did not smile. "I mean it, Dís. The higher your stress, the higher your blood pressure – the more danger your babies are in."

"Well, in that case could you please speak to the armies outside and tell them to come back in six months' time?" asked Dís in a perfectly sweet tone. "And while you're at it, it would be lovely if you could repair my son's spine, and just pop out to pick up Frodo on your way."

"I'm not saying it's easy, nor am I saying you have no need for fear," said Thora sombrely. "But you must manage your stress, Dís – you must absolve yourself from courtly duties, you cannot take on any more pressure than that which is already upon you. No conferences, no war meetings, no meeting the people to hear their concerns – none of it. Not until you have given birth."

"I-"

"Fíli and Bilbo are more than capable of fulfilling such roles, and I'm sure Vinca will thank you for something to do. You need to relax, as much as it is possible for you too."

"She's right," said Óin gravely. "Healer's orders. And mind you follow them."

Dís sighed, and then gave an obedient nod. Both healer and midwife seemed to relax at this, and she eased herself up into a seated position, taking the lavender tea in both hands. The warmth was comforting, familiar, and despite herself, she felt her body relax a little as she breathed in the calming scent.

After a long moment, Thora clapped her hands together. "Right – now that we're done, I will have to take my leave of you, my darling. There are other women who need me now. But I will meet you for tea tomorrow."

"Of course." Dís smiled, squeezing Thora's hand. "Thank you. And thank you for taking the time to see me."

Thora tutted, pulling her hand free to give it a dismissive wave, and pressing a kiss to Dís' forehead. "Not only are you my princess, but you are also my friend. It is my pleasure, and my honour."

With a final smile and a quick curtsey, Thora left the room, the door closing behind her with a soft snick. Almost at once, Óin stepped forward, his arms folded over his arms.

"I think you were a fool for leaving Rivendell, Dís."

Dís closed her eyes. She had expected this, of course, from all her family. She was not naïve enough to expect that simply making it home would be a good enough justification for putting herself at risk, but she was also firmly wedded to her choice. And it was her choice after all – hers and hers alone.

But of all her kin, there was no one with more right to criticise her decision than Óin.

"I did what I felt I had to do," she said softly. "For Frodo, and my sons."

"You should've gone back. When you knew you'd not catch Frodo you should've listened to Bilbo and gone back to Rivendell – of all our kin, I'd have hoped _you_ would not gamble with death so freely."

Dís opened her eyes and frowned. "That is not fair – the baby, babies, they are not yet born, Óin, if they pass it shall shatter me, but-"

Óin's voice interrupted her in a whiplash. "I wasn't talking about the babies."

Dís' heart was falling again, but this was not the breathless thrill of discovering that there were two babies within her. This was plummeting down into an abyss of fire and darkness, and battering against ice and rocks on the way down.

Idun.

It was not that she had forgotten Óin 's wife – how could she? She had been Idun's bridesmaid, and Idun had been hers.

It was only seven months after Dís' wedding that Idun passed away delivering a baby who was not breathing.

Dís knew full well that she may be heading for the same fate, and it terrified her, but she had not thought of how difficult that fact would be for Óin to swallow.

"I am truly sorry for worrying you, Óin," she said, reaching out to squeeze his wrist. His hands were still tucked stubbornly beneath his arms. "But I do not regret what I did for my sons."

Óin's nostrils flared, but then he sighed, and shook his head. "Aye, maybe not. But you best help them now, lass. They need you, and they need you here."

"I know," she murmured, but even as tears pricked at her eyes, she smiled. "That's terrible advice you know, as a healer. 'Don't die.' Very helpful."

Óin gave an unrepentant shrug, but Dís thought she saw the crinkle of a smile around his eyes. "Sound and sensible, that's what it is. Come on then, my cousin. Time to go and tell Bilbo the news. Although-" Óin bustled to the other side of the room and held up a small vial of yellow crystals. He shook it, and when Dís raised her eyebrows he grinned. "Smelling salts. Just in case."

Smiling, Dís rose and took Óin 's arm. The walk from the Healing Halls to the Royal Chambers was a matter of minutes, but it was unusually quiet today. They saw but one servant passing by, and a single dwarf travelling in their direction. It was not part of the mountain known for heavy traffic, but it was still a route where you could expect to see a handful of people, were it not in the dead of night.

"I do not like this quiet," she murmured, a smile twitching at her cheek at the irony as Óin frowned, and shoved his trumpet into his ear. "I don't like it when things are this quiet," she said, louder.

"Aye, me neither, lass. But it's been this way since the siege began – folk aren't making many unnecessary trips anymore, even inside the mountain."

Dís sighed, trying to keep her fears in check. The hair on the back of her neck began to stand on end, and she noticed Óin shudder beside her. "What is it?"

"Nothing," he grunted. "Just a bad feeling, that's all."

Dís said nothing – in fact, neither of them spoke again until they had reached the Royal Chambers. The heavy closing of the door behind them let a wave of relief wash over Dís, and she ducked her head into the nearby company room. There was always someone there, always someone to make her smile –

Except that today, it was empty.

With a sigh, she turned to Kíli's quarters, knocking softly on the door.

"Come in," called Fíli's voice, and she led Óin through Kíli's chambers to the bedroom. Normally, the sight of Kíli, Fíli and Bilbo sat peacefully together was something that warmed her heart, but today she felt a pang of sorrow.

Her little Kíli was lying flat on his back, unable to so much as sit up, and she could read his boredom in his fidgeting hands and dull eyes. Sitting on the bed beside him, Fíli looked even worse – the dark rings beneath his eyes were deeper and more noticeable, and his eyes were beginning to look red and bloodshot.

There was also a tell-tale smudge of soot on the side of his neck, telling her that not only had he still not been sleeping, but that he had also been to the forge that morning. _Or_ , Dís thought grimly, _he went in the early morning, before Kíli woke up._

Bilbo looked little better than the boys – he was curled up in the chair beside Kíli's bed with a book on his lap, but his gaze was on the ground before the tome and not on the page, and like Fíli, there were dark bags beneath his eyes. He was also oddly pale, and his face was contorted into a frown that was far too sombre for the book of children's poetry on his knee.

When he saw her, however, he leapt from his seat and hurried over. "Well? Is everything alright?" he worried, taking her hands and glancing at Óin. "Dwarven tradition be damned, it still feels like I ought to be in there with you for check ups like this…"

She smiled softly. "It's alright, Bilbo. As far as we can tell, the babies are healthy."

Bilbo's face broke into a wide smile. "Thank the Valar!" He threw his arms around her and kissed her, and as Kíli protested about being far too young to witness such passion, Fíli began to frown.

"Amad," he said slowly. "Did you say babies?"

She smiled, her hand resting on her bump. "I did."

"Well, what did you think was in there?" asked Kíli, frowning at his brother. "Rocks?"

Dís laughed, and as she did Bilbo gasped, his eyes growing wide as saucers, and his hands clamping over his mouth.

"Kíli?" said Fíli slowly.

"Fee?"

"Babies."

There was a pause, and then Kíli jolted, his eyes growing wide as Bilbo's, and his face mirroring his father's so exactly that it was hard to believe they were not related by blood. "Babies? More – more than one baby?"

Dís nodded, "Twins, we think."

"Twins?" squealed Kíli, delight shining from every facet of his face. "That's amazing!"

"That's – alarming," amended Fíli, his sharp eyes studying Dís carefully. "Amad, if there are two of them-"

"We know the risks, Fíli," she said softly, "and we have a plan. Don't worry, dushtêl, I will be fine."

Fíli gave a shadow of a smile, and Kíli's grin faded in the face of it. Concern filed his eyes, only to be flooded out by fear, and she saw his knuckles turn white as he clutched at the bedsheets.

"Dwarves – dwarves can have twins safely, can't they?" he asked, his voice growing faster by the second. "Of, of course they can, can't they, because Marta had Orla and Ola and then Bodin and Bolin and Bo-"

"I will be fine, Kíli," Dís promised, ignoring Óin's awkward shuffle beside her. Only one thing was stopping her from running to Kíli's side and wrapping her arms around him, and that was Bilbo.

He was still standing before her, as white as marble and just as still. He had not moved a muscle – she was not sure that he had even breathed – and she squeezed his hands gently. "Bilbo?"

Óin uncorked the vial of smelling salts and waved it beneath Bilbo's nose, and the hobbit gave a splutter of indignation, batting the dwarf's hand away.

Óin smirked and elbowed Dís' ribs. "Told you we'd need them."

"Twins?" Bilbo breathed.

She nodded.

"You're sure?"

"As sure as one can be, with these things."

"Oh Mahal…" Bilbo's legs gave out entirely, and Kíli cried out, but Dís caught him guiding him back to the chair at their son's bedside.

"I'll be fine," she said, reaching out to take Kíli's hand even as she ran her fingers through Bilbo's curls. "We are home now. We're safe as can be, and I will be fine."

"Marta's had four babes born since she delivered her twins," said Óin reassuringly. "And her pregnancy's normal as anything."

"Exact – wait, Marta is pregnant?" spluttered Dís, turning to Óin "How have I not heard of this?"

"You've only been back two days, for one thing," said Óin, but then his face fell, and his eyes grew soft and sad. "Besides, she and Bombur have had more pressing things to worry about, bless their souls."

A soft blanket of sorrowful silence descended upon them, and Dís sighed, sinking down onto the side of Kíli's bed. His hand tightened around hers and his head tilted towards her, his eyes staring up at her as vulnerable as ever from beneath his dark fringe. "You will be alright, Ama, won't you?"

"Of course, _makadmûn_ ," she murmured, smiling and poking his nose with his own hand. "I will be just fine."

"Good," he mumbled. "We need you."

A lump grew in her throat, one she could barely whisper around. "I know."

* * *

Twins. Of all the things that Dís could have told him to ensure that Thorin would once again have trouble sleeping, the news that she was carrying twins was a strong contender for the most conflicting.

On one hand, he was plagued by fears of the risks to the babes – and more importantly, to their mother. Here, completely alone in the dead of night, Thorin could admit to the stars that he did not think he could survive the death of his sister.

But the thought of _two_ babies growing within her, of having two new nephews or nieces filled his heart with joy and hope so strong that it hurt. He knew full well that hope was more dangerous than despair, that hope could prove folly and slice a soul in two, but he could not help but wonder what they would look like, these dwobbit children. Curly haired, he suspected, and small, but would they take after their mother or father more strongly?

He growled, and turned over in bed, trying to think about something else. Anything else – something to distract him from –

A knock at the door.

 _Well_ , he thought, sitting up and striding to the door. _that will do._

"Who is it?"

"Dwalin. We've got a visitor."

Thorin opened the door and his jaw clenched. Fury smouldered in Dwalin's dark eyes, and his fists were clenched at his sides. Nori was standing in the shadows behind him, his arms crossed and a grim look on his face.

"I take it this is no naked fox woman," said Thorin, and Dwalin shook his head.

"There's a filthy great orc outside our gates, white flag in hand. He says he has word for you."

At once, Thorin grabbed a coat and a belt from the door, wrapping them around himself and making himself decent, forgoing shoes as he stepped out of the door and locked it behind him. "Well, let's not keep him waiting. Where has he come from?"

Nori's face twisted into an even deeper disgust as they strode down the hall to leave the Royal chambers. "Isengard, he claims, and he's riding the same ugly type o' warg that Saruman's orcs were riding when they came down upon the Beornings. Damn thing looks like it ran into the side of the mountain. And he's one of the wizard's uruk-hai – saw enough of them in battle to recognise 'em... And there's something else."

"I don't much like the sound of that," Thorin muttered, turning to the guards on the door of the royal chambers as they passed. "Kyrri, Mikel, keep close watch tonight."

The guards bowed low, and Thorin looked back to his friends.

"Something else?"

"He asked for Bombur," said Dwalin darkly. "By name and title. Won't say why, but I fear it can't be good."

Thorin swore, picking up the pace. "You sent for him, I presume?"

Dwalin nodded. "Aye. He'll meet us there. Bard, too, though he wasn't asked for. I thought excluding him might make the rabble-rousers among the men-folk stir again."

Thorin nodded his agreement, and within five minutes they came to the inside of the gates. He pretended rather stubbornly that his ageing lungs were not close to wheezing as he jogged up the stairs to the balcony, where, hidden behind the sealed walls of the mountain, Bombur and Bard were waiting for him.

"What news?" he demanded, and they both shook their heads.

"The guards outside say he's still there," said Bombur, his face redder than his hair and sleeked with sweat. "We know no more than you."

Thorin reached towards the door, but Dwalin grabbed his wrist.

"This may yet be a ploy to lure you out and shoot you down," he said gravely. "Let me go first."

There was no part of Thorin that was happy to allow his greatest friend to act as a living decoy, but he knew the sense of Dwalin's words, and that there was little sense in bickering about it. He nodded, but held Dwalin back from moving straight away.

"One moment," he said, and then he turned his eyes to Bard. "I think you should wait inside. This may be an attempt to wreak discord between our peoples, tear us apart from the inside, and if it is, the scum will speak more freely if he does not know you are here."

Bard bowed his head. "Smart. Be careful."

Thorin bowed back, and then nodded at Dwalin, and at the guards. With scare more sound than the soft scrape of stone on stone, the doors opened, and Dwalin strode out onto the balcony, and Nori slipped into the shadows behind him. After a moment, Dwalin nodded, and Nori reappeared at Thorin's side.

"No bow, no long-range weapons that I can see. If you're gonna go out there, now's as good a time as any," he said, and Thorin nodded, glancing at Bombur.

"If you wish to stay inside-"

Bombur shook his head, and Thorin gave a nod. He understood why Bombur looked so afraid – and why he would join them regardless. Thorin doubted that it was a coincidence that the orc had asked for the one high lord in the king's personal circle whose children were stranded outside of the mountain.

Taking a deep breath, Thorin turned, and strode out onto the outer balcony above the gates of his kingdom. He stood at the very centre on a stone that elevated his head and shoulders above the wall of the balcony, while Dwalin and Nori positioned themselves on either side of him, weapons in hand and ready to aim through the battlements. Bombur lingered a little further back, but made himself visible all the same.

The ring of fire formed by the besieging army was whole and unbroken, but there was only one orc on the ground before the gates. True to Nori's word, the warg the villain rode looked more deformed than any other Thorin had ever seen, and his lip curled in disgust. The uruk, too, was different from most – he was larger, and shaped more like a man than most, and there was a mane of thick, matted hair falling down his back.

Thorin stared down, and twisted his voice to sound as bored as he possibly could. "You've come to surrender, I presume?"

The orc grinned, teeth yellow in the moonlight. "Am I speaking to Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain?"

"You are," drawled Thorin. "And you're lucky to be. Lord Bombur is here with me, as I hear you… requested. If you are here to waste our time, I can assure you that you will regret it."

The uruk opened his arms and gave an elaborate bow. "I am Mauhúr, General of the White Hand's forces, and I bring word from the West, from my Master, Saruman the Great. Will you hear me?"

Thorin's teeth ground together at the mere name of the wizard, but he kept his face passive and bored as could be. "I suppose I will."

Mauhúr opened his arms again, leaning back in his saddle. "The Lord Saruman offers his hand to you in friendship – he wishes to ally with the great dwarves of the Lonely Mountain, and for such an alliance he will reward you richly. He shall clear up this mess at your gates, and allow you lordship over the mountain and all lands around it. You shall govern as you ever have, and your city will be untouched in the wars that are to come – no more shall you have to pander to the whim of the elves, or shelter weak menfolk in your halls. Your lands shall be your own once more."

"Pandering to elves?" snarled Dwalin, quiet enough that the uruk would not hear him. "Who the devil does he think he is?"

Thorin nodded slightly in silent agreement, even as anger surged through his very bones. He would never be 'allowed' to govern his own lands – he would rule his kingdom through his own right, or he would die fighting in its defence.

"Oh?" he called down, his voice trembling with the effort to keep his anger masked. "And what would Saruman get from this oh-so-generous agreement?"

"As your known Lord and Master, you would pay homage to him. Ten thousand gold pieces a year – a reasonable price, I am sure – and your army would be at his service."

Thorin could not help it – he spat at the ground. "Saruman is a cowardly swine more foolish than any foul thing that walks this earth if he thinks such an offer will sway us," he snarled. "Durin's Folk have no Master beyond their own lords, and we never will."

Mauhúr's mouth remained bared in a smile, but it grew darker, crueller, and a trickle of dread bled down Thorin's back. "He thought you would say something like that. Saruman is wise beyond your comprehension, and more merciful than you deserve. He insisted that the offer be given first, so that you will know that you always had a chance at aiding him willingly. Here the offer changes. If you agree to Saruman's terms, and send with me the first payment of gold, he will return some things that were lost to you. Alive, whole, largely unharmed. A little dwarven lordling by the name of Bróin, and a little halfling whore that he calls Nelly."

The blood in Thorin's veins turned to stone as he froze, his widening eyes the only outward sign of the horror pouring through him. He had feared a threat like this, but to hear it, to hear the names of their little ones in the voice of an orc…

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blood drain from Bombur's face, saw his large hands reach out for the support of the stone wall, saw a horror in his eyes so intense that it hurt to see. On his other side, he saw Nori, with a face like an iron mask – unmoving, unreadable. To most. But his hands were shaking, and Thorin could catch a glimpse of horror in the tightening of Nori's eyes, and it did not look like the Spymaster was breathing at all.

"Ah, I thought those names might ring a bell," sneered Mauhúr, and he pulled out a small box from his bag. He rode his ugly warg to the gate, and Thorin signalled for the guards to lower the message cage – a small contraption that allowed items to be drawn up over the wall, but was too small for even a babe to be brought up in. The orc placed the box in the cage and then rode back, his smile ever growing.

"If you choose to cooperate, they will be returned to you, alive. If you reject Saruman's hand, we will bring you the girl's head," Mauhúr said, a sickening look of serenity passing over his face, like one remembering a treasured memory. " _Just_ her head. Wouldn't that make little Bróin sing, watching the rest of her split between the troops for pudding?"

With a wild roar of anger, Nori broke rank, surging forwards and drawing back his arm to throw a blade at the laughing uruk. To Thorin's relief, Bombur caught him in time, wrapping his arms around Nori's chest and dragging him backwards.

"We need, we need more information," Bombur gasped, breathing heavily as Nori began to go still. "Please, Nori, we don't even know where they are."

With a wordless snarl, Nori nodded, and Bombur released him. Slowly, they returned to their positions, and as they did, the messenger cage reached the top of the balcony. At Thorin's signal, one of the Night Guards opened the box, inspecting the contents before nodding, and signing 'safe' in Iglishmêk.

Thorin inclined his head, but turned away from the box for the moment, looking back at Mauhúr instead. The self-assured smile was still written all over the scum's face.

"If you refuse Saruman's offer," the uruk said, as if nothing had happened, "she is good as dead already. But oh, Lord Bombur, do not worry. Even if the king forsakes the halfling whore, he won't be damning your son – not necessarily. Not if you pledge your own, personal service to Saruman the White, and show your loyalty with a payment of six hundred thousand gold coins. Then, he will be returned to you."

Thorin swore beneath his breath, stepping back and turning away, his hands tugging at his beard as the sound of Mauhúr's laughter rose up behind him.

"Thorin," croaked Nori, but his head was shaking, and hopelessness was half-drowning the anger on his face.

"Those are the conditions," Mauhúr called. "Give us your alliance, and you will get your little ones back. Reject us, and we will gut them, and watch as Mordor wears your walls away and rips you apart from the inside."

"Thorin," choked Bombur, looking desperately at his king. "Thorin, do something!"

But Thorin knew. He knew the call he would have to make, the decision that would break Bombur and shatter Nori and eviscerate their entire family.

Because he could not sacrifice the lives of all within the mountain for the sake of two people.

Not even Bróin and Nelly.

Mauhúr's voice rose up again. "You have until dawn to make your decision. Oh, and if you decide to shoot the messenger, my Master will know. And he will be sure to send you what's left of their bodies."

Without a word, Thorin stormed back into the mountain, hearing Bombur and Dwalin and Nori hurry behind him.

"What's the plan?" demanded Dwalin, the moment that the doors closed behind them.

"I – I have to get to the treasury," Bombur gasped, but Thorin shook his head.

"You cannot pay that ransom, Bombur, it-"

"That is my son!" Bombur cried, his voice a broken wail. "I do not care how much it is, or if I have to sell my soul to Saruman to get him back, that is my _son-"_

"It is not about the gold," said Thorin, grabbing Bombur's shoulders and forcing his friend to meet his eyes. "Listen to me – if it were simply a matter of gold, I would empty the treasury in a heartbeat, and you know that. You _do,_ Bombur. I would give all I had to get them home, safe, and I would not hesitate, but that is not all that is at stake. It is not all that the wizard would gain. He cannot claim governance over Erebor, and he _cannot_ claim lordship over you. That would put _everyone_ in this mountain at risk, including your children. I am sorry, but I cannot let you do that. I am so sorry."

Bombur moaned, swaying on the spot, and for a moment Thorin feared that they would both fall. But Dwalin was there, and he helped Thorin lower Bombur slowly to the ground.

"But we're gonna do something, right?" said Nori, his whole-body twitching and trembling as though he had consumed far too many of Radagast's mushrooms. "We're going, we're going to get to Isengard and tear it down and bring them home and-"

"I don't know," said Thorin, as calmly as he could. "If we can launch a rescue of course we will, but I do not know if anyone could leave the mountain without it being suicide-"

"You think I care whether or not it's a suicide mission?" hissed Nori, his eyes wild as a warg's.

"I think you should. You won't do Nelly any good dead," insisted Thorin. "We just need to think – we need to buy some time…"

"How?" demanded Bombur weakly. "What're we going to do? Oh, Bróin, what have you done?"

A hand rested on Bombur's shoulder, and for a moment Thorin was shocked to see that it was Bard. He had completely forgotten that the king of men was there, but there he was, and he wore an expression so grave that Thorin would have thought it was his own children who had been declared captive.

He said nothing, but he pressed his hand to his chest, and then held it out towards Thorin, palm first. It was a gesture so simple and clear that it broke what little control Thorin had left to stop the tears burning in his eyes.

If there was anything that he could do to help, Bard would do it.

One of the Night Guards approached them with the small box that Mauhúr had sent up, and he bowed low before Thorin.

"Forgive me, your majesty, but I think you should see this." He held out the box, and with a knot of trepidation in his heart, Thorin peered inside.

A tear wove down around the crook of his nose. Inside the box were a handful of loose beads – familiar beads, a familiar necklace in the shape of a flower, and a severed auburn braid held together with a bead bearing Bombur's sigil.

It was real, then.

Nelly and Bróin had been captured.

He took the box and offered it to Bombur, but when his fingers touched the braid, the large dwarf gave a howl and began to sob, letting the box fall to the floor beneath him. Quick as a diving magpie, Nori snatched Nelly's necklace and clenched it tight within his fist, turning away from them all.

"You've made up your mind, then, Thorin?" he muttered, his tone so dark it sent a chill down Thorin's spine.

Closing his eyes, Thorin bowed his head. "The duty of care to the people sheltering here has made my decision for me, in regards to what we tell the scum outside. That is not to say I will not sanction a rescue, and I will not abandon Nelly and Bróin to this fate. Never."

"You consider sanctioning it," said Nori, and he turned with fire in his eyes and venom in his voice, "because by midnight tomorrow I will leave this mountain, with your permission or not, with your _help_ or not. And if I die two feet from the gates, so be it."

 **There I leave you for today! Please do let me know what you think of this chapter, your feedback means the world to me, and I really, deeply appreciate it.**

 **Until next time, take care of yourself :)**


	84. Chapter 84: Kinships of Lads and Lasses

**Hey there! Thank you so much to all those lovely people who reviewed the last chapter, it means the world to me! Also, hey look, another Monday update! We're back on the roll, my friends (famous last words, I know.)**

 **As ever, please forgive any typos here.**

 **Chapter Eighty-Four: The Kinships of Lads and Lasses**

The clattering of hooves against stone echoed through the empty city, and an icy breeze whistled through the windows, but besides those sounds there was only silence. Silence and death.

So much death.

The bodies of his people were strewn about the ruins of Osgiliath, broken and bloodied – many beyond recognition. Some wore the armour of the City Guard, but others were still clad in the green garb of the rangers.

He was too late.

He kept riding.

If the garrison at Osgiliath had fallen, if Rion and Madril and the other rangers had all been cut down, Faramir would make sure that his father's wish came true. Maybe he would manage to take down an orc or two. More likely he would be shot down before he got close.

 _You should turn around_ , a fierce voice in the back of his mind whispered. _Live to fight another day! Turn around!_

He pressed on. Turned the corner.

Moaned.

Once, a great silver spire had sat atop the library of Osgiliath. Now, it was among the rubble on the ground, and the body of one of Faramir's most honest rangers had been impaled upon it. Tuon, son of Varion. His face hung back, eyes still open, still terrified. Still fourteen years old. Now he would be forever fourteen years old.

In the distance, something squawked, and Faramir slowly raised his head. Orcs. They were still across the river, then.

What were they waiting for? If the entire garrison was slaughtered, why was the western bank still silent, still unoccupied?

Was this a trap?

 _If this is a trap then please, just let it be sprung._

Faramir's horse snorted and stomped, but he spurred it gently on.

"It will be over soon, my friend," he murmured, stroking the beast's neck. "It will all be over soon."

They rode deeper into the city, weaving their way towards the river, and the closer they got to the old bridge, the more bodies Faramir found. He scanned every face, each stranger adding a drop of grief into the ocean in his heart. Every friend added a tidal wave.

He could see the orc fires now. They were lighting the other side of the river, and their smoke rose thick and dark to cloud the stars. Cackles and jeers from the orcs rose around it, and for a moment, Faramir closed his eyes. Would that the last thing he heard be birdsong, or the gentle babbling of a little stream. He knew that would not be his fate. He knew that this was all he would hear before death took him. And death would take him soon.

The old bridge was now in sight. It was nothing more than a stump now, a fragment of rock bowing over the river, but there was a boathouse nearby, and there ought to still be a boat or two in there that might bear him across the river. Faramir dismounted, pressing his forehead to the face of his horse.

"You might yet live to see the dawn, my friend," he murmured, and then he patted the horse's rump. The beast turned, and began to trot back, but then she paused, looking over her shoulder at Faramir. He closed his eyes, and turned away. She would run when the fighting commenced.

He stepped out onto the riverside, into the view of orc archers, he was sure, and let his feet drag him to the boathouse.

And then a shrill, desperate whistle met his ears, and froze his foot to the ground. The call of a screech owl. It sounded again, twice, each time more frantic, and he turned back towards the city. There was a shadow dancing before the entrance to an alley in the shape of a fist, and as the whistle sounded again it opened, five fingers clear as day against the ground.

He knew that whistle. He knew that signal.

There were still living rangers here.

He stepped towards it, and at that moment his horse gave a shriek, and an arrow shattered the stone behind Faramir's head. He sprang forwards, sprinting towards the shadow even as it vanished around the corner. He heard the hooting of orcs, a smattering of arrows, but none found their mark, and after a moment he was out of sight of the river. There was no sign of the shadow nor of the one who made it, but before he could whistle himself, a doorway opened, and a hand reached out to seize his arm, dragging him through the old guardhouse and into a small hall.

It took him a moment to realise that it was Rion. Her entire face was bruised and bloody, and her right eye was swollen shut, the swelling extending up onto her forehead. Beneath her injured eye was the angry, burn-like mark of an arrow wound, and he thought he caught sight of a missing tooth, but before he could so much as speak, she interrupted.

"What are you doing?" she hissed, her left eye wide with surprise. "We sent word to call for a retreat, not to send one man to take the river! We sent word that to ride here was suicide, Faramir, why are you here?"

Ignoring her question, Faramir swallowed, and glanced at the huddle of men behind her. There were perhaps fifty left, rangers and soldiers alike, and many of them looked as bloodied as Rion. Some looked worse, and two men lay on the floor, grey and pale, and unmoving.

"What happened here?" he asked, looking to Rion.

She shook her head slowly. "We lost, my lord. We fought, may the Valar know we fought, but we were too few. We could not hold the city."

"But you are still alive," said Faramir slowly. "They left you alive?"

A humourless laugh drew his eyes to Iorlas, one of the few men still standing from Osgiliath's original guard. "Not from mercy, my lord. They mean to hunt us. A little sport before the battle, I don't doubt."

Faramir looked around the room at the weary, battered men before him. Iorlas' words rang sickeningly true – in spirit and body, those who had survived were broken, and they posed no threat to a whole battalion of orcs. They were just the sort of group that orc packs liked to hunt – they would put up a fight, but they would lose all the same.

"My lord Faramir," called a young voice, a soldier whose helmet came down too far over his eyes, "Are there orders, my lord? Are we to retreat?"

 _If you do not reclaim the river, do not come back._

"How many horses do we have?" he asked quietly, avoiding the lad's question.

"None," said Rion, her face refusing to crumble even as her voice cracked. "Most fled – the orcs killed those they could find."

Faramir stared at her for a long moment. Many thought Rion unreadable, especially when they found out that she was a woman, but it was not so for Faramir. She had been his dearest friend for nearly two decades, and among his closest confidants, and he could read her face as well as she read his.

Rion was not afraid – her teeth were not clenched, and her eyes were not narrowed. Her shoulders were back and straight, her chin held strongly, proudly, but her bottom lip was tucked in slightly, and her open eye was dull. Hopeless.

She knew that she was going to die, and she was resigned to it. She was not afraid. But she was sad. Achingly, desperately, sad.

"Very well," said Faramir, bowing his head at her. "Rion, take the men to the verge of the Pelennor Fields – if you can, get there unseen, and whistle for my horse. She will find you – she can bear those who cannot run. When you hear my horn, run. Run for lives, make for Minas Tirith with all the speed you have."

A soft murmur ran over the small crowd, and Rion shook her head slightly.

"What are you going to do, my lord?" she asked slowly.

"I will cause a distraction," he said. "Keep them busy. Keep their eyes away from you."

This time it was a mutter of angry protest that rose up from the gathered men, and Rion gasped.

"Your father ordered you to stay, didn't he?" she said, her careful mask falling away to reveal an anger and heartache so deep that Faramir looked away. "My lord, did Lord Denethor command you not to return to the city?"

He felt the room hold its breath, and Faramir closed his eyes. To seem weak now, to weep about his father's commands – that would not be his legacy. But lying to his closest friends would not be his last act either.

"He told me that the outer defences should not be abandoned," he said quietly.

"And that you should not return if you could not defend them alone?" Rion prompted, apparently for once uncaring of her own insubordination.

Faramir said nothing.

"He – he would not!" stammered the young soldier in the too-big helmet. "The Lord Denethor would not do such a thing! That would be a death sentence!"

Silence fell swift and sharp as a bone breaking beneath a sword, and Faramir hung his head. It seemed only the child had any faith in his father. The child, who had been sent to war without seeing thirteen summers.

"If _that_ is the will of the Steward," growled Iorlas, "then I will stay with you."

Faramir's eyes flew open, and he stared at the soldier. "You will not."

"I will stay, too," said Rion, and so did Berelach, and Arthael, and a dozen others, until the room was filled with the words, "I will stay."

"No! Gondor will earn nothing from you throwing your lives away," Faramir insisted, and Rion drew herself up tall.

"Perhaps not. But if Gondor will sentence our captain to death, then we will die beside him. We love you, Faramir," she said, her voice fierce as flame. "You are our captain, and our lord, and we love you. We will gladly die at your side."

"He's right," piped up the lad in the helmet, though his voice shook, and his arms were wrapped tightly around his chest. "We love you, my lord, and you have always fought for us. Of course we'll fight for you."

 _If you do not reclaim the river, do not return._

Faramir's eyes filled with tears, and he placed his hand over his heart, bowing deeply. The room bowed back, and when they stood, Faramir stood up tall. Tall as a lord of Gondor.

"Gentleman," he said, smiling grimly, "let's get out of here."

* * *

"May I join you?"

Merry looked up in surprise. There was an armoured warrior standing before him and his little fire, with their helmet still on and a somewhat familiar lilt to their voice. None of the riders had really wanted all that much to do with him in the first stretch of the ride to Gondor. They were too busy sharing each other's company, in the case of the soldiers, while Théoden and Éomer were too busy discussing tactics and warfare to pay him much mind.

To their credit, both men had insisted that Merry was welcome to stay around their fire, and Théoden had even said that he should like to hear about hobbit history, if ever they had a moment to spare. As deeply as he appreciated that, Merry had found all the talk of battle far too depressing, so he had excused himself, promised to return should the king have time to hear of the history of the Shire, and set up his own little campfire with Denahi.

And from then he had been all but ignored.

"Of course," he said, remembering his manners and gesturing to the ground beside him. "The tea's almost finished brewing."

The warrior sat down, and their voice was somewhat confused as they asked, "Tea?"

"Bilbo says there's few problems that can't be solved and nerves that can't be soothed with a good cup of tea," said Merry, smiling wryly. "I always carry a pouch of tea-leaves with me, though I have to be careful not to mix them up with my pipe weed!"

The warrior laughed slightly. "Indeed?"

Merry nodded, more certain by the moment that he had met this man before. Of course, it would be rather rude to blurt out a 'do I know you?' so instead, he said, "I haven't got any milk though, I'm afraid."

The warrior smiled. "That is quite alright. It would be an honour to share your tea with you, Master Merry."

Aha! So they _had_ met! He quickly scanned through his memories of all the Rohirrim that he had met, but only one name seemed to match the voice. His eyes widened, and then narrowed a fraction, focusing on the eyes beneath the helmet. He saw the warrior's cheeks burn, and he glanced over to where, fifty feet away, he could see the back of Éomer's head.

"The honour is all mine," he said slowly, raising his water skin to his lips to half mask his, "my lady."

Éowyn winced slightly, glancing over towards the king's campfire. "Please, call me Dernhelm."

"Dernhelm?" Merry raised his eyebrows. "I assume your brother does not know you are here, then."

Éowyn pursed her lips and met Merry's eyes. "You ride to play your part in protecting your family. So do I."

"I never implied that you weren't," he said, stirring the tea in the small pot before him. "Oh, Grandma Menegilda would shriek if she saw me brewing tea like this – no kettle, no pot – not even a lid! And we've no tea-strainer's either, so we'll have to use our teeth for that. If she ever finds out she'll clout me around the ears, I'm sure."

Éowyn's eyebrows appeared in the eye holes of her helmet as they furrowed in confusion. "You – do you intend to tell me brother that I am here, Master Merry?"

"No," he said honestly, reaching into his pack for a couple of mugs. "It'd be awfully hypocritical of me, seeing how I got myself into this mess."

"Do you regret it?"

Merry paused. Did he? He regretted the battle at Moria's Gates – he regretted the loss of Bofin's legs, and he grieved the death of Soren with a passion that still hurt. He regretted losing Nelly and Bróin, losing Frodo and Sam. But did he regret going?

"No." He lowered his head and sighed. "No, I don't regret it. Don't get me wrong, I don't like where I am, and I don't like what we've lost… But I did what I thought I had to do. What I thought would be the right thing. I know I can't save Middle-Earth. I know I'm just one hobbit. But I still want to help my family."

Éowyn stared at him for a long moment, and then her face softened into a sad smile. "You have courage beyond any I have ever met, Meriadoc Brandybuck."

He laughed. "I don't know about that, but I do my best!"

He ladled the steaming tea into the first mug, passing it to Éowyn. She bowed her head in thanks and raised the mug towards him before she took a sip. With a small smile, Merry filled his own mug and blew on it gently, before raising it to his lips.

As he did, Denahi stirred, opening his eyes and giving a great yawn, and Éowyn raised her eyebrows. "He does have rather large teeth, your wolf."

Merry chuckled softly. "That's because he is a wolf, my – Dernhelm. But don't worry. He won't bite."

Denahi stretched out front leg and rolled his neck, yawning again, and then he crawled forward, resting his head in Merry's lap.

"See?" Merry smirked, stroking Denahi's ears. "Vicious, violent creatures."

"Oh, I can see that," said Éowyn sombrely, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "I am shivering in my boots. Though I must say, I am impressed at how well he is keeping up with us."

Denahi looked up at her with a rather unimpressed expression, and Merry chuckled. "We get that a lot, don't we, boy?" he murmured, poking his wolf's nose gently. "It was less than a year after he lost his leg that he was keeping up with the others completely, even with me on his back. We won't be left behind." He took a long sip of tea, feeling it warm him and calm him, and he smiled. "Would you like to stroke him?"

Éowyn looked a little taken aback. "Would he mind?"

With a soft whine, Denahi shuffled a little closer and closed his eyes, a smile-like expression on his face. Merry rolled his eyes. "I think he would mind a lot more if you didn't."

Smiling, Éowyn reached out and gently ran two fingers over Denahi's snout. He gave a soft sigh, and Éowyn grinned, letting her hand open and running it over the wolf's head.

"His ears are so soft," she murmured.

Merry sat back slightly, taking another long drink of his tea, but as he did a loud horn blew. He jumped, sloshing tea down his tunic, and looked at Éowyn.

"If we're moving out already…"

Even as she rose, she nodded. "I fear the scouts found Gondor in worse shape than we'd hoped."

 _Pippin._

Merry swallowed, and with only a slight mourning the waste he spilt the rest of his tea over his fire, lashing the pot back onto his pack and climbing astride Denahi. Even before the seasoned soldiers of Rohan, they were ready, and within ten minutes they were on the move.

And as they flew on amidst the thundering hooves of the Rohirrim, one thought passed through Merry's mind again and again and again.

 _Hold on, Pippin. I'm coming…_

* * *

The first thing Sam became aware of was a blazing pain at the back of his head – a throbbing, piercing ache that felt like his old Bofur's mattock had been swung straight into his skull. For a second, it was all that he knew – but only a second.

Because then he felt strong hands shaking his shoulders, tapping against his cheek, and a wave of nausea curled into his stomach, and then he remembered.

With a gasp, he opened his eyes to see Nelly crouching over him, her brow furrowed with concern, and specks of blood splattered between her freckles.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

Sam nodded, but the movement sent a spasm of pain across the back of his head, and he winced, reaching back to tentatively touch the base of his skull. He felt the tack of blood on his hands, but it was not much. Not fatal.

"Frodo – Bróin-"

"Gone," she said, her voice trembling with fear, or with rage. Or with both. "The orcs took them, they got away. They got away, Sam. But I know where they've gone, I saw where they've gone, and we're going to get them back."

"Gone?" Sam whispered, feeling every ounce of strength seep out of his body. When she nodded he groaned, covering his face in his hands.

Gone.

Frodo and Bróin were gone.

He had failed.

He had let Frodo and Bróin fall into the clutches of orcs. How foolish, how stupid could one hobbit be? How many times had he heard the tales of the spiders of Mirkwood on Bofur's knee? He should have _known_ they were unconscious, he should have realised – he should have at least _tried –_

He was stupid, stupid, and Frodo and Bróin were the ones to pay the price for it.

"Come," Nelly said, her voice raw, and her hands reached Sam's wrists, gently tugging them away from his face and pulling him into a seated position. "Are you concussed?"

Sam considered that for a moment, his hand hovering over the growing lump. "I – I don't think so." There was a buzzing in his ears and a sickness in his stomach that seemed to disagree with him on that matter, but he did not have time for that. There was no time to be concussed while Frodo and Bróin were in the clutches of orcs…

"Are you sure?" Nelly asked, her voice like steel. "Sam – concentrate! Are you sure you're not concussed? Because if you are you might have to wait here."

"I'm not concussed," he said, unknowing and uncaring as too whether or not it was a lie. Nelly nodded, and stood up, and Sam felt a spasm of horror. There was not just blood splattered over her face – it was all over her hands, up her arms, and her tunic was soaked in it.

His stomach lurched, and he scrambled up onto his feet. "Nelly, you're bleeding!"

Nelly shook her head, her face growing greyer and grimmer. "No. It's not my blood. I –" She broke off, and for a long moment her eyes lingered on Sam, but then she pursed her lips and turned away, her arm wrapping around her stomach.

A chill ran down Sam's spine, and he slowly turned his head back towards the tunnels. Another surge of nausea roared in his stomach, his time charging up towards his throat, and he pressed his palm against his mouth.

Gollum was dead.

His corpse was splayed across the entrance to the spider's lair, his limbs lying motionless in his lifeblood, and his bulbous eyes wide open. There was one deep stab would on the left side of his torso, with perfect aim through his ribs to his heart. Just one blow had been enough.

His eyes widening, Sam looked back at Nelly. "You – you killed him?"

Nelly stiffened, her shoulders hunching over slightly as her head bowed. "Yes. I killed him. He had struck you down, and his hands were around my throat, and I did what I had to do."

Sam stared down at Gollum and swallowed. He looked very small now. Vulnerable. Afraid. Sam could almost see why Frodo felt so sorry for him.

"Oh, Nelly," he breathed, and then he turned, and threw himself at her, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he could. "Are _you_ alright?"

She shivered, and he felt her arms lock around him. "I will be," she whispered, squeezing him for a moment and then gently pushing him away. "When we get them back, then I will be."

"Right!" Sam nodded, clearing his throat and tugging his cloak into place. "Right, that makes sense. Very good. Where are they? You said you know?"

She took a deep breath and bit down on her lip, nodding towards a tall, ominous tower in the distance.

"Oh."

"Exactly," she sighed. "And there's just one thing…"

"One thing?" said Sam weakly. He could think of many things to worry about. Many, many things indeed.

"Yes. The quest." Nelly turned and stared deep into Sam's eyes. "We promised we'd let nothing get in the way of it. We promised, and if we take _it_ into that tower, we're risking everything. So, do we split up?"

"Split up?" Sam echoed weakly.

"I could go to the tower, if you carried on. If you kept going for the mountain, straight as you could make it, then we're protecting the quest, and still going after Bróin and Frodo."

"Why me?" asked Sam, even as he felt the heavy weight of the ring around his neck.

A tear broke free from Nelly's eyes, and she shook her head. "Because I can't," she whimpered, staring down at her toes. "I can't do it – I can't leave them. I – I just can't do it. I know I should, but… I can't."

Swallowing his tears as best he could, Sam nodded. "Well, that makes two of us."

She gave a small, weak smile, and then nodded back. "Come on, then. We can both be terrible heroes together. If you're alright to move, we'd better get out of here."

Steadying himself with as deep a breath as he could manage, Sam gave one more nod, and adjusted his bag on his shoulders. It was worryingly light – Toothy had been carrying most of their supplies, but there was no sign of the warg anywhere, and there was no time to look for him. He hurried towards the path where the orcs had come from, but Nelly paused, glancing over her shoulder.

Glancing over at Gollum.

"Just leave him," Sam said. "He's not worth burying."

After a lingering moment, Nelly nodded and jogged over to Sam, smiling weakly at him. She took his hand and wove her fingers between his. "Let's go get our boys back, hey?"

Sam squeezed her hand. "Aye. And kick the living daylights out of Mordor while we're at it!"

And together, hand in hand, Samwise Gamgee and Pimpernel Took ran down the mountain path, swift and silent as shadows, into the land of Mordor.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Do let me know what you thought if you have the time, I love feedback!**

 **Until next time, do take care :D**


	85. Chapter 85: The Fall of Osgiliath

**Whoop-whoop - three weeks in a row! Thank you for the lovely feedback from the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one, too!**

 **As ever, please forgive my inevitable typos.**

 **Chapter Eighty-Five: The Fall of Osgiliath**

With a soft sigh, Pippin rested his chin on the balcony and gazed out at the gloomy fields outside of Minas Tirith. According to the clock and to the guards, it was nearly midday, but it was dark. Very dark. Thick, black clouds hung low in the sky, creeping their way into Gondor from the silhouette of Mordor.

Gandalf had said that when the darkness reached the city, the battle would begin. He said that it was a shield against the sun for the host of Mordor, and he said that he had some errands to run.

Then he said for Pippin to stay where he was, and stay out of trouble.

So Pippin stayed. Curiosity rose within him every now and again, drawing him towards the door, but memories of the Palantir and Moria and cheesy scones kept him on this balcony. It was nearer to the outer wall of the city than the room they had been staying in, but still high enough to offer him a view of the land that a guard had told him was called the Pelennor Fields.

The guards did not want to talk to him much. They were too busy guarding, and worrying. Not that Pippin blamed them. It was their duty to protect their city – not to make a little hobbit feel less alone.

So instead of talking, Pippin simply watched the rolling darkness.

He could not look away – he had tried.

It was like his eyes were glued to the darkness, and the great, smoke-like cloud seemed to sing of his darkest fears. The longer he stared at it, the more he saw – horrible, horrible visions in his mind of his family and his friends that would not go away no matter how hard he tried to think of something else.

His whole world revolved around his family. Around Merry and Fili, and Nelly and Bróin and Frodo and Sam and Pearl and Vinca – around his parents and cousins and uncles and aunts. There was not a single one of them he did not fear for. There was not a single one he could think of without his imagination turning against him, and conjuring an image of their broken, bloody body.

 _Well,_ he thought, sighing again, _I don't do too well being alone, now, do I?_

Not that that was a surprise. He did not do too well at most things.

Really, he should make himself useful, but he had no idea how to. There was nothing he really could do, save pledge his service to the steward and see if there were any menial tasks to do that way, but he did not think he wanted to do that. Pippin was sure of very little, but he knew that he did not like Denethor – not at all.

He heard a set of heavy, familiar footsteps behind him, and managed to tear his eyes away long enough to send a weak smile at the approaching wizard.

Gandalf smiled back, but he looked wearier than Pippin had ever seen him. His eyes looked very dark. "Well, my lad? How goes it?"

"It's very quiet," said Pippin. "The darkness is getting closer."

"Yes, the time is nearly upon us." Gandalf paused, pursing his lips and peering out over Gondor. His eyes widened, and a thrill of fear ran through Pippin. "Osgiliath!" the wizard breathed. "The cloud has reached Osgiliath."

With a slight frown, Pippin followed the wizard's gaze to the edge of the darkness. It hovered over a small, white city, built closer to Mordor than Minas Tirith, if Pippin's guess was true. Surely any settlements so close to Sauron would have been abandoned by now? There could not be anyone left in that small, lonely town, with the river running through it grey against the sky.

The river!

"But Faramir's still there!" Pippin cried, looking up at Gandalf. "That's, that's where Faramir went!"

"Indeed." Gandalf's voice was heavy, mournful, and Pippin swallowed. "That is where lord Denethor sent his youngest son. The army is upon them, now – I fear it is too late for Faramir. Curse him!"

"Faramir?" asked Pippin, confused, but Gandalf shook his head, turning away from the view and glaring bitterly up towards the citadel.

"No – Denethor. Curse him! He has allowed his pride and hatred rise above his care and his sense – the people will not love him for Faramir's death, and neither will Boromir. Neither will I."

Pippin felt a lump in his throat, his hands clutching the cold stone of the balcony. "Is - is it really too late?"

Gandalf bowed his head, his eyes closing. "I fear so. If they were to retreat, the company would have done so by now. Now the army is upon them. This will be their last stand."

Pippin tried to swallow, his eyes stinging. He had little memory of Faramir, given that he was but a toddler when first they met, but Boromir...

This would crush Boromir, and Pippin knew it. It would crush him beyond words or tears or hope.

He wanted to close his eyes, to look away from the dark moving ever closer, but he could not. His eyes would not move from Osgiliath, to where in all likelihood Boromir's brother was now standing. Dying.

Everything seemed so hopeless. And Pippin had to ask.

"Gandalf? Do you think there's any hope? For Frodo, and Sam, and Nelly and Bróin?"

The wizard opened his eyes and put a hand on Pippin's shoulder, and in his eyes was a sorrow as deep as the sea. "There never was much hope. Only a fool's hope."

Pippin tried to give a sad smile back, but his eyes were getting too watery, so he turned back to the sight of the darkness rolling over the far-away city.

And then Pippin saw something.

He rubbed his eyes and leant forwards, and then he gasped. "Gandalf! Gandalf, there are people down there!"

"What?" The wizard turned, and his eyes grew wider than Pippin had ever seen them. He whispered something that Pippin could not catch, and then he ran towards the road down to the gates of the city, fast as a man in his prime.

Pippin swallowed, and stared at the ant-like figures fleeing into the open fields, but then he heard a loud, angry call.

"Quickly, Pippin!"

Pippin jumped, and threw himself away from the balcony, running after the wizard. For a moment he was almost lost, but then he saw the trail of Gandalf's cape disappear around the corner and he hurried after him, wondering if he had just imagined the wizard calling him. After all, what good could Pippin do?

Still, as Gandalf gave a strange, high whistle, and charged down the street, Pippin hurried to keep on his heels. They were not even yet at the gate of the city when the young hobbit heard a tremendous crash, followed by cries of shock and the canter of horse hooves, and then Shadowfax appeared before him, shaking off his mane.

"Come along, Peregrin Took!" called Gandalf, and Pippin as so surprised that he shook his head.

"Me?"

Gandalf turned and grabbed the hobbit under his armpits, hoisting him up onto the horse. Pippin only caught sight of the wizard's face for a moment, but that moment was enough for him to see a familiar look of sheer exasperation.

"Yes, you," he said, leaping up behind Pippin with surprising skill for so old a man. "Given the trouble you manage to get yourself into even _without_ having a Dark Lord and his Nazgûl on your tail, I think it would be best if you remain within my sight. Don't you?"

Feeling himself go a little red, Pippin nodded, and Gandalf raised his staff into the air. Shadowfax charged down the street, sending the people of Minas Tirith gasping and leaping out of the way. A yell of 'open the gates!' was the only thing to beat them to the outmost level of the city, and even as the horse sped towards the great gates the men pushed them open, and Shadowfax burst into the Pelennor Fields.

Muttering something in elvish that Pippin did not understand, Gandalf wrapped his arm around Pippin, and Shadowfax tossed his head back with a shrieking neigh, and then his hooves fell faster, and faster, and faster still, until the wind was stinging Pippin's eyes and whipping his hair against his face. Never, _ever,_ had Pippin ridden as fast as this – and it would not be fast enough.

The men fleeing Osgiliath were so far away that they looked smaller than hobbits, and there was only one horse among them bearing three riders, but on their heels were hundreds upon hundreds of orcs, spilling out from the ruined city like red-ants. The fastest of orcs were already catching the slowest of the men, and Pippin winced as he saw an orc leap onto a limping man, bringing the soldier crashing to the ground and sinking its teeth into his neck. Another man fell out of nowhere, and Pippin saw a red tipped arrow in his back. Another man fell, and a third –

And then an explosion ripped the horizon apart, a sound so loud that Pippin would have jumped right off the horse if it was not for Gandalf's arm around him. Great hunks of white rock shot through the air around a plume of black smoke, and flames began to lick the roofs of Osgiliath as debris rained down upon the orcs closest to the city.

The orcs screeched and cringed, but the men did not so much as falter, instead continuing to run towards Minas Tirith, and towards Gandalf and Pippin. Some were stumbling or limping, and others were supporting the weight of their friends, but they were all moving forward. All running.

Many of the orcs were falling back towards the city, but not all of them, and even as Pippin thought that there might be hope for Faramir's troop, there came a screech that pierced the air, and a great shadow swept over the sky.

Terror coursed through Pippin's body and he looked up to see a great, winged beast in the sky, its rider shrouded in darkness.

"Is that a dragon?" he gasped, and though he thought his voice would be tossed aside by the wind, Gandalf replied, his voice grim and strained.

"No, it is not. It is a fell beast, a steed of the Nazgûl. Hold tight now, Pippin, my lad."

As the wizard spoke, the winged beast shot towards the ground like a hawk that had sighted a rabbit, and it snatched up two men in its claws before it surged back up into the sky. Pippin could not tear his eyes away from the sight as the men were raised higher and higher, their limbs flailing desperately, and then the claws released, and the men fell, and Pippin flinched, squeezing his eyes shut before they hit the ground.

He was close enough to hear them, though. To hear their screams, the crunch, their silence.

Shadowfax lurched to the side and Pippin gasped, his eyes flying open to see the Nazgûl swoop down again, this time plucking one of the riders from the back of the men's horse. The man screamed, and Pippin closed his eyes again, clutching at Gandalf's arm.

 _Don't let them take me,_ he prayed silently. _Don't let them take me, don't let them take me, don't let them take me._

Gandalf's arm tightened purposefully around him, and then a bright light filtered through his eyelids, and Pippin opened his eyes. The most pure and brilliant light he had ever seen was shining around him, so bright that it felt like pure magic, and as he watched Gandalf thrust his staff towards the Nazgûl. With the precision of Fíli throwing a knife, the light shot into the sky above them, its beam shining on the beast of the Nazgûl. It let out another hair-raising screech, wings flapping almost clumsily in the air as it turned, flying back towards Mordor.

Pippin gave a wild laugh and looked down to see the orcs faltering, cringing away from the light and the wizard, and then a horn blew from somewhere in the city, and the orcs fell back, retreating into their newly-claimed ruins. As they did, the men's horse cantered past Shadowfax, foaming at the sides with white, bulging eyes, but still bearing two bloodied soldiers. Pippin met the smaller soldier's eyes as they passed each other, and his heart skipped a beat. The boy looked even younger than he was, and could not be much taller.

Barely slowing at all, Gandalf rode to the very back of the group of men, keeping his staff held high and letting the light fan out behind them like a great cloak. Then, like a sheepdog herding from the back of the flock, Gandalf kept the men of Minas Tirith moving.

"Run!" he ordered, even as his light kept the orcs at bay. "Your lives are ahead of you, there's not far to go now! You must keep running!"

A thrill of hope through Pippin, tingling like lightning from his head down to his toes.

They might make it. They might actually make it.

"Mithrandir! Mithrandir!"

It took Pippin a moment to remember that Mithrandir was the elvish name for Gandalf, and he would have wondered why a man of Gondor was using it, if he had not seen the soldier who called and been startled out of his thoughts.

The man's face was so badly beaten that Pippin doubted even a mother could recognise him – one eye was swollen shut, and his entire face was covered in mottled shades of black and purple and green – but still the man was moving, and moving quickly. What was more, there was another man draped over his shoulders. A man with two, long arrows embedded in his back.

"Mithrandir, my lord is injured!" the man called again, and Gandalf stiffened, turning Shadowfax towards the soldier. For the first time, Shadowfax slowed to a speed that did not make Pippin's eyeballs sting, and his stride faltered beside the staggering soldier.

"Pippin, you're going to have to hold on for yourself, lad," said Gandalf, and then he slid down off the horse's back. With a start, Pippin realised that he was now the sole rider of the 'fast-as-one-of-Kíli's-arrows' horse, and he all but fell forwards, wrapping his arms around the beast's neck as tightly as he dared. After a moment's consideration, he locked his legs around Shadowfax's chest too, for good measure. Shadowfax snorted.

"He, he was a fool!" gasped the soldier, still staggering beneath the weight of the man over their shoulders. "The arrows were meant for me, Mithrandir, and I was too slow, but he – he was not!"

"Help me get him onto the horse, there's a good lad," said Gandalf, and Pippin glanced over his shoulder as the wizard and the man draped the prone body over Shadowfax's back, just behind him.

"Take, take him to the city," gasped the soldier as Gandalf mounted Shadowfax once more. "Mithrandir, please, get him to the healers!"

"There is more than one man here to get safely into the city," said Gandalf, even as he took the wounded man's pulse. "Come, Master Rion – now is not the time to stop running."

Rion seemed to sag on the spot, hopelessness clear on his weary, battered face, but he nodded, and began to run again. Swallowing, Pippin glanced over his shoulder at the body behind him. The arrows were lodged deep, by the looks of it, and dark blood soaked the armour around them. But he might live, this lord that Rion clearly loved so much. Boromir had survived the arrows of the uruk-hai, and –

Pippin's blood ran cold, and he looked from wounded man up to Gandalf. "Is – is this Faramir?"

Gandalf nodded grimly, turning Shadowfax to once again ride across the back of the group, making sure that no one was lagging behind, and that the orcs and wraiths did not dare come any closer.

Pippin swallowed, staring down at Boromir's little brother. Was he breathing? It was hard to say. He was very still. Very pale.

"Is he going to be alright?" he asked, but Gandalf did not look at him.

Biting his lip, Pippin looked back at Faramir. He looked much younger than Pippin expected. Much more vulnerable. Pippin understood Rion's frustration now. They had to run, to fly, to get back to the city and get Faramir into the Healing Halls, they had to get the arrows out of his back, they had to do it now! But if they could not…

Taking a deep breath, Pippin let one of his hands leave Shadowfax's neck so that he could reach back. His fingers were trembling, but he managed to reach Faramir's elbow, and he pulled it gently.

"Peregrin, what do you think you're-" Gandalf broke off as Pippin squeezed Faramir's hand, looking up at the wizard.

"If… Boromir wouldn't want him to feel alone," he mumbled, and Gandalf's eyes sparkled with tears.

"Very good, Master Pippin," he said softly. "Very good. But don't you fall, now."

Pippin nodded, and then Gandalf's focus moved behind him. The wizard's eyes narrowed a fraction, but then his shoulders relaxed a little, and he let his staff lower slightly.

"At last…"

There were riders charging towards them, dozens and dozens of them, and Pippin's heart leapt. If Rohan had come, if Merry and Gimli were –

But no, he realised, his heart sinking as quickly as it had risen. These men were clad in deep blue armour, each with a swan emblazoned on their tunic. He could see that even from afar. They were not the Rohirrim, and Merry was still a world away.

Boromir was still a world away.

Pippin squeezed Faramir's hand. It was very cold.

The fastest of the riders was quick to reach the group of fleeing soldiers, and he leant down with the dexterity of an elf to pull one of the men onto the back of his horse, before turning back towards the city. One by one, Faramir's men were brought up onto horseback, until there was not a single man left running on his own two feet.

"Now," murmured Gandalf, "Go!"

Shadowfax lowered his head, and Pippin tightened the grip of his arms and legs, leaning forward against the horse's neck in an attempt not to fall off. His arm stretched uncomfortably behind him, but he still had hold of Faramir's hand, and he was not about to let go. Once again, Shadowfax ran with impossible speed, weaving deftly between the other riders and flying into the city ahead of them all.

"Out of my way!" bellowed Gandalf, waving his staff at those citizens foolish enough to still be standing in the road as they clattered their way through the city. "Get off the road, get out of my way!"

When he glanced over his shoulder, Pippin could see that many of the riders were following them on the route to the Healing Halls, including a tall man with long, dark hair and a grave face, who had the soldier Rion on the back of his horse – the only horse who came close to keeping up with Shadowfax.

They skidded to a halt so fast that Pippin got a mouthful of horse hair, and his fingers slipped at last from Faramir's. As Gandalf dismounted, the grave-faced rider caught them up.

"Mithrandir," he called, managing to leap from his horse and bow at the same time. "Faramir – does he live?"

"That is yet to be seen," said Gandalf, his eyes sadder than Pippin had ever seen them. He moved to bring Faramir down, but the man strode over and put a hand on the wizard's shoulder.

"Please," he said, in a voice that was strangely soft for a man so tall and broad. "May I?"

Gandalf bowed his head and stepped back, and the man gently pulled Faramir down, carrying him over one shoulder as though he weighed no more than a sack of potatoes and disappearing into an archway that Pippin assumed must lead to the Healing Halls.

"Prince Imrahil is Faramir's uncle," said Gandalf sadly as he lifted Pippin down, and led him through the archway. "Come."

Quick as he could, Pippin followed Gandalf through the Healing Halls of Minas Tirith. Again, there were others following, but when Gandalf turned into a side room only Rion entered with them, the others carrying on further down the hall. No doubt to find healing of their own.

Already, Imrahil had laid Faramir belly down on a bed so high that Pippin could comfortably place his chin on it, and there was a woman busy removing his blood-soaked armour and clothing. The young lord's face had been turned to the side, and Pippin could see a wispy lock of hair floating back and forth before his lips.

He breathed.

Gandalf strode over, and began talking intently to the healing woman, and to Imrahil, and almost at once, Pippin felt very out of place. He did not even know Faramir, but here he was by his sickbed, watching an uncle mourn the wounding of his nephew. It felt very private, and yet here was Pippin. Too much of a nuisance to be out of Gandalf's sight.

Except maybe, now, he had a chance to be a little bit more useful. He was not a healer – not by any stretch of the imagination – but his Grandma Daisy was, and after the horrible incident in Mirkwood she had made sure to teach Pippin all she could make him remember about the basics every time that he returned to the Shire. So, he took a deep breath, and walked over to the one person in the room who looked almost as out of place as he did.

Rion was standing by the door in a pose that Pippin knew well. Shoulders back, hands down at his sides, back stiff. It was the position of a guard, but judging by the soldier's face, he ought to be leaving the guarding to someone else.

Clearing his throat, Pippin steeled himself. "Excuse me, sir, but you should probably let someone look at your face. Now, I know I don't look much like a healer and I'm not really one at all in truth, but I know the very basics and-"

"You are a halfling," whispered Rion, stumbling forward and grabbing Pippin's shoulder tightly with eyes so wide the man looked half-mad.

"I-uh-yes," said Pippin, his eyes flickering towards Gandalf. "I am."

"What is your name?" the soldier demanded, and somewhere in the back of his mind Pippin noted that his mother would be furious at such a show of bad-manners.

Pippin, however, was much more like his dwarves in this respect, however, so he said, "Pippin. Peregrin-"

"Took," breathed the soldier, a grin spreading across his swollen cheeks and revealing a missing tooth. "You're alive!"

Pippin blinked. "I – well, yes, last time I checked. How do you know my-" Pippin froze, his eyes moving for the first time to the soldier's uniform. Except it was _not_ a soldier's uniform. It was the garb of a ranger, and he knew that because he had seen it before. "You've seen my sister? And Bróin, and Frodo, and Sam?"

He nodded, and looked up at Gandalf. "Mithrandir, will want to hear what I have to say. When I know that Faramir is safe I will tell you everything, I swear it."

Pippin shook his head quickly. His heart was beating fast enough to outrun Shadowfax. "Is she alright? Are they hurt?"

"Not when last I saw them. They were unharmed, and well-fed, too," promised Rion, but his eyes were fixed in Faramir.

A healer approached them, but Rion brushed her hands away. When the woman tried again, Rion shook his head.

"When I know how my lord fares, and I have given my report, I will consent to be tended to. Until then, madam, my duty binds me."

The healer raised her eyebrow, and then turned away without a word, muttering something that sounded an awful lot like, "sisters."

After what felt like a lifetime, Gandalf turned away from Faramir and approached Rion and Pippin, his face grim and his hands bloody. The arrows were no longer in the young man's back, and the healer was binding him with bandages, but then Imrahil stepped beside Gandalf and blocked Pippin's view of Faramir. When he looked at Pippin, Imrahil did a double-take, though unlike Rion he said nothing.

"The fight is now down to Faramir," said Gandalf wearily. "I have done all I can, and the healers will continue to assist, but the arrow tips were poisoned. He is stable, but if he does not have the will to endure, I fear he will succumb."

"Faramir is stronger than any man here," protested Imrahil. "Why would you think he has not the will?"

"My Lord Faramir has not been himself since we received word of his brother's death," said Rion, his worried eyes on Faramir.

"Boromir is dead?" cried Imrahil, and Pippin and Gandalf shook their heads.

"No!" they said together, and Rion recoiled.

 _"No?"_

"We left him alive in Edoras, less than a week ago!" explained Pippin.

"He lives?" breathed Rion, and then his knees gave way. With a start, Pippin attempted to catch him, but the man was near twice his height and all muscle, so they both ended up on the ground. Imrahil helped Rion into a chair as Gandalf hoisted Pippin back to his feet.

"Indeed," said Gandalf. "The lies of Gríma Wormtongue spread far."

Rion's head dropped into his hands. "Then the lies of Gríma Wormtongue will kill Faramir. When he met us in Osgiliath he fully expected to die there. I fear a part of him almost wanted to."

Imrahil swore, looking over his shoulder at his nephew in a way that reminded Pippin a lot of Thorin, and the worried looks he would give any of the children in their family if they got so much as a cold.

Gandalf sighed. "I do not doubt it, with words such as his father's. Nevertheless, it is out of our hands, now. All we can do is pray."

Rion nodded, and then raised his head, looking at the wizard. "We met Frodo Baggins and his kin in Ithilien, Mithrandir, not three days ago."

Gandalf's eyes widened, and he leant more heavily on his staff. "What? Rion, tell me everything!"

And Rion did tell them everything.

Pippin's heart twisted painfully at the knowledge that Nelly and Bróin had been imprisoned, had been tortured, and that he had been so close to getting them back. So, so close to knowing that they were alive, to getting them somewhere safe and giving them some clean clothes…

That said, he was also very pleased to learn that the rangers had welcomed them, and very happy to know that they had all be properly fed and clothed before they moved on. He was also slightly jealous of their taming of a warg. He would quite like a warg of his own.

Most important of all, though, was the knowledge that they were alive. His big sister was still with him.

But then Rion said something else, something about the path that they had taken, and Gandalf's eyes grew darker than the cloud of Mordor.

"Cirith Ungol? You are sure?"

Rion nodded.

"What does that mean?" demanded Pippin. "Gandalf?"

Gandalf stared down at him for a long moment, and then gave a heavy sigh.

"That, my dear young hobbit, means trouble."

A loud, angry voice began to shout down the hall, and the hair on the back of Pippin's neck stood up. Imrahil's lip curled slightly, and Gandalf's nostrils flared.

"Denethor," the wizard muttered. "He will not like that this report came to me, though I doubt not Faramir told it to him first hand."

"I will deal with Denethor," said Imrahil gravely. "Faramir needs peace, and my brother-in-law needs a talking to."

"I will help you with that," said Gandalf. "Master Rion, I suggest you submit to a healer yourself. Do not fear for Faramir. Pippin will look after him."

Pippin smiled a little, and though Rion did not look convinced, he nodded, and allowed himself to be led away by the same healer from before, who had quite clearly been lurking and waiting for such an opportunity.

"You take care of my nephew now, boy," said Imrahil, nodding at Pippin and them striding out the door before Pippin could utter as much as a 'yes sir!'

Gandalf leant down and looked Pippin in the eyes. "Normally, Imrahil's manners are not nearly so brusque, but he cares very deeply for Faramir. I do not know if Faramir can hear us, Pippin, but if he can it is vital that he knows Boromir lives. Do you understand?"

Pippin nodded, and Gandalf smiled at him, squeezing his shoulders before sweeping off after Imrahil and leaving the hobbit alone with the unconscious Faramir, and a healing lady whose name he did not know. Again, a feeling of extreme awkwardness crept up him, and a part of Pippin wanted to just sneak away.

However, Faramir was Boromir's baby brother, and Pippin would be damned if he let anything happen to him.

He grabbed a nearby chair and pushed it up to the side of the bed, clambering up so that he could actually see the young lord, and then, once again, he took Faramir's hand. It was still cold, and clammy, but Pippin held it tight, and cleared his throat.

"Hello, Master Faramir," he said. "You don't know me – well, I doubt you remember me, since we were barely more than babes when we met last, but my name is Pippin, and I'm good friends with your brother. Now, I know you've been told that Boromir's dead, but he isn't. He isn't at all, I promise. He's on his way to see you, so you have to hold on now. You have to. Because if he gets here and you're gone, it will break him for certain. I'm sure you're wondering how such a big misunderstanding could happen – now, I don't _completely_ understand myself, but I'm pretty sure it starts with a nasty little man called Gríma Wormtongue…"

It was over an hour and a half before the men returned, and when they did it was to find young Peregrin Took still talking. He chattered softly about happier days of their journey, and wandered off on tangents that led nowhere, and repeated again and again that Boromir was alive, and well, and coming to see his brother soon. It was several minutes before Pippin even noticed they were there, but none of them, not Gandalf, nor Imrahil, nor Rion, had the heart to stop him.

Not when they could see the slightest twitch of a smile of Faramir's slumbering face.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought, if you can, I really appreciate it.**

 **Until next time, take care!**


	86. Chapter 86: The Siege Begins

**Good evening! Three weeks in a row! Thank you for all the lovely reviews for the last chapter - I promise I will reply but right now I am falling asleep at the keyboard, so please bear with me, and forgive any mistakes :)**

 **Chapter Eighty–Six: The Siege Begins**

When the darkness of the night seeped into the Healing Halls, and the torches began to burn low, Gandalf collected Pippin from Faramir's bedside, and escorted him back to their room. It felt almost like being a child again, as though he was being picked up from school, too small to safely bring himself home. He was so tired, however, that he was not altogether upset about this. He was not sure what time it was, or how long he had sat there holding the injured man's hand, but it felt like an age, and the longer that Faramir lay there still and lifeless, the heavier Pippin's heart had become. He kept imagining what it would be like to have to tell Boromir that Faramir had died, that Pippin had sat there, helpless as an infant, and watched Boromir's brother die.

Though he did not like the thought of his being as small and useless as a child again, Pippin appreciated the sense of comfort that came from Gandalf's presence. There was even comfort in the comparison to a school run – some of Pippin's fondest memories of childhood were of various members of the company collecting him and his siblings when his parents were busy. Dwalin was his favourite – he would usually make them march two at a time, and more often than not he carried Pippin, to make sure that the littlest hobbit did not get lost. Again.

That night, Pippin dreamt of Dwalin carrying him across an endless field, a barren stretch of no-man's land, while their family lay sprawled across the dirt around them, as lifeless as Faramir.

 _Everyone was there, every person that Pippin loved, and their chests rose end fell in an eerie unison, but their eyes were closed, and they did not move. They did not move at all. Though the grass of the field was brown and withered, there were flowers springing up around the bodies of his family, small, sickly flowers that swayed in a breeze Pippin could not feel._

 _Sprawled on the ground as though she had been thrown down was Pearl, a crown of wilting anemones peeking through her hair. Vinca lay beside her on a bed of daisies, and then there was Nelly in a sea of silver snowdrops. Dwalin kept on walking, passing through them without so much as a pause, and no matter how much Pippin yelled and screamed and begged, his sisters did not stir._

 _Fíli was the next they passed – forget-me-nots were pushing out between his fingers, and Kíli was beside him, thistles framing his deathly pale face. One of his hands was reaching out towards Bilbo, but there was a line of withered white roses between them, a line that extended towards Frodo, where the roses grew black, and crowned his head._

 _Pippin begged Dwalin to stop, to let him get down and help, but when he looked up it was to see Dwalin's eyes an alien, milky blue, clouded and sightless, and a line of blood trailed down his forehead to fall on Pippin's face._

 _And Pippin could not move – his whole body was paralysed, and his limbs would not listen to him, and there was nothing he could do to stop Dwalin from walking on, from walking past Merry, who was being strangled by a line of ivy wound tight around his neck. Behind Merry was Pippin's papa, lying beneath a cage of thorns, and behind him was his mama, and his uncles and his aunts and cousins, and Dwalin carried him slowly past each and every one. Past every member of the company, past all their dearest friends. Past his nearest hobbit relatives, past each of the company's children, down to Bombur's baby Olin. No matter how Pippin wailed, none of them moved. Their chests kept rising and falling together, all at the exact same time as though they were doing it on purpose –_

 _All except Soren, who was not moving at all. And his eyes were open. Unseeing. Gone._

This is what will become of you, _a cruel voice whispered._ This is the fate your family will find ere this war is ended.

 _And the breathing stopped – every chest stopped rising and falling, and Pippin looked back to see his family begin to fall away, one by one disappearing into a pile of ash, even as he screamed –_

He woke up sweating and shivering, and cold as death. A wave of relief surged through him, but so did the urge to cry, and he sniffed, wondering where his blankets had got to. It was cold, very cold, and he sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes in an attempt to dispel sleep and tears at the same time. He was so tired, but he did not want to go back to sleep. He did not want to see that again.

He shuddered, and felt a sob rising in his chest, but across the room Gandalf gave a great snore, and Pippin's sob escaped as more of a breathless whimper. It was alright. He was not alone, not really. Gandalf was there. Gandalf would look after him.

Taking a deep breath, Pippin reached for the blankets on the ground. He could hear murmured voices on the breeze that swept in through the open window, soft, morning voices. Guards, most probably, making their rounds. Or maybe they were people like Nelly – folk who liked to rise before the sun, and take a little solitude in the cool morning air.

She claimed it calmed her, cleared her head, and Pippin always said she was mad for it.

Well, it seemed he would be the mad one this morning. He slipped out of bed and wrapped the blankets tightly around his shoulders. They were far too big to claim to be a cape, but he waddled towards the balcony door anyway, letting them drag across the cold stone behind him. He slipped outside onto the balcony and turned around a few times to form a little nest out of the enormous blankets, before sitting down amongst them.

He peered out into the gloom of the world from the gap in the balcony, wondering if Nelly was still waking ahead of everyone else now that she was in so small a group. He imagined that she might, if the boys wound her up – but then Pippin was usually the only one that did that, and she may well be too tired for such things. He supposed the whole group was probably rising early, in any case.

Because they were alive, and they were on the road, and now he knew it. No vision in the Palantir or hopeful words of Boromir had instilled such relief in Pippin as Rion's words had, because Rion had _seen_ Nelly, really seen her, and spoken to her. He knew Pippin's name, and his relation to Nelly, and he seemed to know of their quest, as well, which meant that Nelly and Frodo trusted him very much.

And Rion had left Nelly alive, and well – and clothed, which was an unexpected relief for Pippin. The thought of his sister traipsing into Mordor, of all places, in naught but what was essentially underwear was terrifying. Nelly was one of the strongest people he knew, and to picture her so vulnerable made him feel a little ill. But it did not matter, because now she had clothes, and light armour, and a sword of her own.

And she was not dead. Bróin was not dead. They were alive, and well, and not killed by Rangers, and Pippin could finally breathe without feeling like one of his ribs was poking into his lungs.

Also, they had a tame warg. A warg! The more he thought about it, Pippin was less afraid and more jealous. Wolves were all well and good, but Pippin did not technically have a wolf of his own. Much to his disappointment, none of the first pack of Beorn's wolves had 'adopted' him, and neither had any of Lani's pups. But Nelly had Kya and Bróin had Nyla, so it was utterly unfair that they now had a warg too.

Assuming that the warg did not turn on them. Rion had not seemed completely convinced that it would not, and neither was Pippin. He hoped that they were being careful – but then that was probably a little hypocritical of him. Nelly was _meticulous._ Of course she would be careful. Nori had taught her well.

Pippin wondered where Nori was, and whether their dwarves had made it to Erebor yet (as a matter of fact, they had not, having not left Mirkwood yet, but Pippin had no way of knowing this.) He wondered if they were alright. He wondered how large Dís was by now – she had not been showing when he last saw her outside the gates of Moria –

But that brought up memories that he did not want to dwell on, and he took a deep breath, turning his mind back to the Shire. The safe, stable little Shire, where they would still be cooking up sausage and bacon for breakfast, and dancing all day, and smoking until they were sick.

Except the Shire was not safe anymore, was it? The Shire was open to attack, Pippin had known that since he was five. There was nowhere safe. Not anymore. For the first time in a while, he thought about what Frodo had said when he told them of the strange, prophetic dream he had had at Tom Bombadil's house.

 _"Pearl, she was bound to a tree and watching Paladin – there were orcs, kicking him into a ditch, he was-"_

Frodo had never said 'dead.' He never had to.

Pippin tucked his knees up beneath his chin and hugged them tightly, breathing as slowly as he could in an effort not to cry. If his papa was dead, if his body had been tossed into a ditch –

If Pearl was tied to a tree, having to watch –

And if orcs had Pearl tied to a tree, and alone, what would they do to her next?

And what had happened to his mother?

He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that it hurt, and flashes of light appeared before them. This was not helping. Gandalf said that visions only showed one possible facet of the future, that they were not definite. Paladin could be fine, sleeping off a good old night at the Green Dragon or the Ivy Bush. Pearl was probably just snoozing, and dreaming about hobbit dances and dwarven balls. He had no proof that they were in danger at all.

Slowly, he stood up, letting the blankets fall to the floor. The breeze blew straight through him, and he shivered, raising his hands slowly towards the sky. He shuffled until his feet were flat against the stone floor, and then pushed his arms up as far as they could go, breathing deeply.

This was what Nelly did.

He knew that, because when he was little, and banned from waking his parents before half past seven in the morning, there was little else to do other than watch Nelly stretching, and bending her body into weird positions that Pippin could not hope to copy. It had been years since he had copied her, or even watched, but he remembered that she touched her toes next, and he slowly leant down, his fingertips grazing the tips of his toes.

It felt rather nice, actually, and Pippin tried to think of the stretches that Dwalin would drill them on after training, to stop their muscles from hurting so badly the next day. As he ran through the ones he had not forgotten, he found that finally, _finally,_ his mind began to slow down. To clear.

And he could just breathe.

There was light creeping over the eastern mountains – sunlight or firelight, Pippin could not tell, but for the moment, it was not important. For the moment, he could just be.

Eventually, though, the moment ended. His tummy was rumbling fiercely, and he was rather cold again, so he decided to go and get properly dressed. When that was done, and his rummaging for food in his pockets had turned up no more than a crumb, he glanced at Gandalf. The wizard was still sleeping, soundly, but Pippin was hungry.

 _Would it really do much damage if I went out in search of some food?_ he thought, but then he thought of Denethor, and he winced.

The Steward of Gondor had _not_ been happy about Gandalf and Imrahil keeping him from Faramir. Pippin had heard him yelling the day before, heard him roar about Gandalf 'stealing both' of his sons, and accusing Imrahil of arriving too late to 'save Faramir from the wizard's poison!'

Pippin had not heard the words of Imrahil's reply, but Denethor had left soon after that, apparently surrendering to the healers' pleas for peace.

The hobbit highly doubted that the man's temper had lessened overnight, and he had absolutely no desire to run into Denethor. With his luck, that was exactly what would happen, so he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

His stomach roared and he groaned. He must have been waiting for _hours_ (or, more accurately, forty-six minutes) when finally, _finally_ there came a knock at the door.

Gandalf sat up at once, waking with a speed that Pippin found frankly alarming, and stepping out of bed to answer the door almost before the knocking stopped.

"Imrahil. Good morning."

"Good morning, Mithrandir. May I come in?"

"Of course," said Gandalf, and Pippin noticed that the wizard was already dressed. He must have slept in his robes as he did on the road – though upon reflection, Pippin did not think that particularly strange. The thought of the wizard in pyjamas, on the other hand, was an odd one indeed.

Imrahil swept into the room with a majesty that Pippin recognised from Boromir, and his eyes swiftly fell on the hobbit. When they did, he bowed his head.

"Master Peregrin. Forgive me, for the manner in which I spoke to you yesterday. I was brusque and uncourteous – in my defence I have only concern for my nephew."

Remembering that Gandalf had called this man a 'prince', Pippin bowed low in dwarven fashion before he spoke. "I don't think that much of an apology is needed, my lord, if I'm perfectly honest," he said. "I understand."

Imrahil smiled, and his resemblance to Boromir heightened. "You are a kind fellow. I can see much likelihood of truth in Gandalf's account of your friendship with Boromir. Nevertheless, I am sorry for my tone. It was unwarranted."

"If you say so," said Pippin. "Though I still think it understandable."

"I would drop the matter, if I were you, Imrahil," said Gandalf, smiling wryly down at Pippin. "Master Peregrin is rather more accustomed to giving apologies than receiving them, and trading niceties with a hobbit can last all day."

"Very well," said Imrahil, turning to Gandalf. "I have come to find you – there is movement in Osgiliath. We think the orcs there are preparing to move out, and advance towards the city. The time for gathering reinforcements is running thin, and the Steward is… not in his right state of mind."

Gandalf's face darkened. "That has been true for some time – but what do you mean?"

"He was up by the fourth hour, speaking of the end of Gondor, and sneering about your attempts to usurp him, and steal his sons away. He spits words of doom at the guards – I fear he will spread fear through the city before long."

The wizard sighed, shaking his head slowly. "Well, this war won't wait for him to find his senses – send out a last call for any more men that can be spared, and begin readying the troops. The women and children should be taken deep into the city – as far away from the walls as we can get them. I fear there is no time to evacuate them now."

"And indeed, nowhere for them to go," said Imrahil gravely. "These are orders I can give, without suspicion of mutiny, but it would be best if Denethor is kept out of the way. Perhaps Master Pippin here might form a distraction?"

Alarmed, Pippin looked up at Gandalf sharply, but the wizard gave a laugh and shook his head.

"He might, but I doubt it would serve us well," said the wizard. "Pippin here is rather good at causing distractions, but they are often very large, very messy, and very obvious. I fear he may well end up putting one or both feet in his mouth if he was left alone with the steward."

Imrahil raised his eyebrows, but his face was not unkind. "Very well. If you will accompany me, Gandalf, in readying the city, I will have someone come and give Master Peregrin a grand tour."

"Are you sure?" asked Pippin, feeling his face go a little pink. "I'm sure I could probably make myself useful, somehow."

"I'm sure you could," Imrahil said seriouslu. "Please, do not feel that I am casting you aside, or judging your uses to be few. It was you that lit the beacons and summoned our allies to our aid, was it not? I have heard some of your adventures from Gandalf, and my thought was only in allowing you a chance of a little rest from such heavy matters – a moment to take a deep breath before we must plunge into battle."

"Oh," said Pippin, glancing at Gandalf.

The wizard smiled, and nodded. "It would suit me best to know that you were having a little fun, even if only for a while."

"Alright," said Pippin. "I suppose I'd probably only get in the way, in any case."

Imrahil began to protest, but Gandalf laughed again, and ruffled Pippin's hair.

"I do not doubt it at all. Now, I expect you are hungry by now, Pippin? Perhaps we can drop this hobbit off at a dining room on our way out?"

"Of course," said Imrahil, bowing Gandalf out of the door.

"Out? Where are you going?" asked Pippin, a sudden sense of anxiety rising within him. If he was left alone in this big city, with all these big folk…

"Not far, my lad. In fact, I doubt I will be leaving Minas Tirith. But there are councils to be had and captains to call to arms."

"Oh," said Pippin, falling quiet again. The two men murmured to each other as they walked, and Pippin fell behind, though not far. They were leading him to food, after all. It would not do to get lost.

The came to a room with a decent sized dining table, but there were not many people inside it. When Gandalf said dining room, Pippin had expected something lie the great dining halls of Erebor – huge, cavernous rooms filled with lines upon lines of tables, where there was never any less than a dozen people, and more often than not more than a hundred. Instead, it was a small room, nondescript and quiet, and there were only six men there. They all wore the uniform of the guard, and they all looked exhausted. A couple looked up curiously at Pippin, but the others barely glanced his way. Pippin looked up at Gandalf, and the wizard squeezed his shoulder.

"Imrahil will send someone to collect you soon, I am sure. In the meantime, keep out of trouble."

Pippin nodded, and Gandalf walked away, leaving Pippin alone to try and climb up onto the bench without looking like a fumbling child. After a mercifully short few minutes, a young serving boy bustled in with a plate of toast and cheese, and a mug of ale for him, and Pippin tucked in eagerly. It was a meagre breakfast, by hobbit standards, but it did the job, and though he almost snickered to think what his mother would say if she saw him drinking ale before midday, he drained the whole tankard. He had just finished when a familiar man walked in.

"Hello, Master Pippin. How are you, this morning?"

"Master Rion, good morning!" said Pippin, standing up to greet him. "Much better off now that I've eaten! How are you?"

A small twitch of a smile tugged at the corner of Rion's lip. "Faramir said that your people are a hungry folk. I am well, as can be expected." In truth, Rion did not look well at all. His face was still bruised and swollen, and he was leaning on a small staff. "I have come to give you the tour of Minas Tirith."

"Oh! Well, thank you," he said, but then he paused. "Wouldn't, wouldn't you rather rest, though, Master Rion? If I'd just been in so great a fight-"

"I would rather stroll," said Rion, smiling wearily. "Spend a little time loosening the limbs, so to speak. I am not fit for duty, perhaps, but I am well enough to take a turn about the city."

Pippin was not altogether sure that he agreed, but he had no desire to upset or anger anyone, so he nodded, and followed Rion to the door. As they walked, the soldier pointed out odd statues and bits of architecture, and occasionally nodded at some passing captain to name them.

"That's old Lord Forlong the fat," he said of one particularly rotund man. "He arrived with two hundred men in the morning – less than half of what we'd hoped, but all that could be spared, I suppose. There are folk yet in Lossarnach that need protecting, and many who once dwelt in Osgiliath shelter there nowadays. But Lord Forlong is a great man, and he fights with a battle axe, much like your people. Those of Erebor, I mean to say."

Pippin nodded, his gaze following the large man as he disappeared around a corner. Something in the man's face and grey hair reminded him of Óin, and a pang of homesickness shot across Pippin's chest.

Eventually, they made their way through the levels of the city to the outmost layer. Rion took him out onto the first great wall of the city, above the intricate gates, and they watched as a steady stream of troops marched into the city. There were hundreds, if not thousands, but Rion's face was tight as he stared out at them.

"We will be outnumbered," he said quietly. "Perhaps that is best. Perhaps it's best that we fall, and those outside the city have the chance to flee – though they have nowhere to go. We will win this battle, Master Pippin, or we will all die."

"A lovely thought," sighed Pippin, resting his chin on the balcony. "But Rohan will come. They will help us."

"Perhaps."

Pippin raised his eyebrows. "Boromir is with them, and Merry, Gimli and Aragorn. If they can't get Théoden to fight, they'll march here themselves in enough of a rage to send the enemy running."

Rion gave a soft smile. "That would be nice. I am sorry – this task was to entertain you, not to weigh your heart further."

"It's alright," said Pippin, though he was unable to keep from sighing. "Though to tell the truth, I'm still surprised that you're not up in the Healing Halls. With Faramir."

Rion sighed heavily himself. "As am I. Faramir has been as a brother to me for most of my life. We grew up together, he – he is much more than merely a lord. But unfortunately, now his father sits with him, and I do not think it would be a good idea for me to be left alone with Lord Denethor. I have more than a few choice words for him – though I know it is hardly my place to say them."

"Didn't stop me," said Pippin, and for the first time Rion grinned.

"I heard. But alas, I am a soldier of Gondor, and therefore I am in the Steward's service, and do not have the freedom to speak my mind."

"That seems a stupid system," said Pippin, thinking of the Shire, and of Erebor. "If you can't voice your concerns to the king – or the steward – how can they be fit to rule?"

"Ah, I think it would be more than concerns I would fling his way..." Rion paused, glancing down at Pippin. "If I may be so bold, Master Pippin, was wondering if I might ask you about your sister?"

"Nelly?" Pippin guessed, frowning slightly. "What about her?"

Rion paused, peering out over the Pelennor fields. "She travels with men – so to speak – and is the only woman among them, yet she seems free to both dress as a woman and fight like a man. Is that common, among your people?"

"Well, yes and no," said Pippin, his frown deepening. "In the mountain everyone is taught to fight, boys and girls besides each other, just in case. Womenfolk are protected, fiercely, but some of them want to be warriors or hunters or guards, and there's no law to stop them. No real shame or scandal either – if they want to be a soldier they can be. Dwarven men don't think they have any right to tell women what they can or cannot do. Nelly wants to be a Watcher when she grows up. Our mother's not too happy about it – she thinks it's too dangerous. She worries. But Nelly's the best swordsman ever seen among hobbits, I should think. She can beat dwarves in a sparring match, more often than not."

"And her choice is respected? She is allowed to pursue such pursuits _as_ a woman? She does not have to try and pass for a man?"

"Of course!" said Pippin, by now utterly baffled. "She is not a man, and she does not want to be. She just wants to pursue her own path, and I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I think she would hate to have to dress like a man against her will. She prefers trousers to dresses its true, but she usually puts her own spin on them. She won't admit it, but she likes to look nice. Feel pretty. If she had to dress like a man… well, we'd never hear the end of it!"

"She is lucky," said Rion softly.

Pippin considered this for a moment, and nodded slowly. "I suppose, she is. It'd be different if we'd grown up in the Shire – I expect she would've had to act an awful lot more like a lady. Fighting's not at all respectable in the Shire, not for men and especially not for women. Anything other than archery seems a little crude and distasteful."

Rion frowned. "That's not what I – then who defends the Shire if none of its folk can fight?"

Pippin shrugged. "There's been a little more practise with arms since Kíli shook everything up, but mastering such a skill still isn't a respectable career. Why do you want to know, anyway?"

Rion raised an eyebrow. "You do not know?"

Pippin shook his head, and Rion smirked.

"You are not nearly as observant as your sister."

Pippin frowned, though he had to admit, "That's… not entirely untrue."

"I ask, Master Pippin, because I know someone who has not had the privilege of presenting as both a soldier and a woman. Someone who must live as a man in order to fulfil her duty and fight beside her brothers."

"Really? Who?"

Rion laughed, shaking his head slightly. "Me."

Pippin's eyes widened, and he opened his mouth. Then he closed it again, feeling rather like an idiot. "Oh. Well, in my defence, unlike my sister I don't go around staring at strangers in an effort to steal their secrets when we first meet."

Again, Rion laughed. "You need no defence. You are not the first to assume that I am who I pretend to be, and you will not be the last. For as long as a woman cannot serve in the army in Gondor, I will stand here with the title Master, and I will wear men's clothes that do not fit, and armour that often burdens me. Faramir feared it would be the death of me. He had the smiths adjust my armour, but there was only so much they could do. Women cannot serve in the army of Gondor. The captains must know, many of them, but they do not ask, and I do not tell. It is all that they can offer us."

"Us?"

"There are others, like me. More, now that the days are so dark. Maidens, mainly – young women and older girls who are yet to marry, who have little to their name. Such women can get away with it, though we risk banishment from Minas Tirith if we reveal ourselves."

Pippin's eyes bulged. "Banishment?"

Rion nodded sombrely. "No woman has been banished in the last hundred years, but it is still written in our law. It is seen as a failure on behalf of our men."

"I – I am flummoxed," admitted Pippin, repeating a word he had heard Bilbo use rather often after witnessing dwarven shenanigans. Up to now, he had never felt quite baffled enough to use it, but this seemed to be the occasion. Though, as he thought about it, he did remember Boromir saying something along those lines around a campfire one night…

 _"It is not in the culture of my people to send women on dangerous missions, or see them fight with the men. We see that as careless and cruel, and a failure on the part of our men-folk. Yet I yield to both your logic and your custom. I assure you, I meant no offense by my words. I am sorry." He bowed his head with his hand on his chest, and Nelly stared at him for a long moment._

 _Then she smiled wryly. "Your apology is accepted, and appreciated. I suppose culture clashes will be inevitable, now."_

 _Aragorn gave a sigh like a laugh, and shook his head. "I don't doubt it. In Gondor it would be highly offensive to fail to mention the needs and allowances of a woman, particularly on so dangerous a quest."_

 _"Among dwarves it is manners to ask if anything is_ needed _," said Gimli, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Yet rude to imply that you think it necessary. And, of course, when it comes to Nelly, it's better just to pretend she was born a boy."_

"Your reaction is refreshing, I must admit," said Rion. "Perhaps one day I will be as free as Miss Nelly."

Pippin opened his mouth to reply, but his words died on his lips and disappeared from his mind in an instant as the horizon was split in two.

A great beam of green light was blazing in the distance, like a great column from the root of the mountains of Mordor to the height of the sky above it, and a feeling of terror coursed through Pippin. He felt his hair stand on end, and he stumbled back away from the balcony.

"Gandalf," he whispered, and Rion backed away beside him, nodding her head.

"He must see this!"

Together they tore back through the city, fleeing through its many levels and up its many stairs. Rion began to lag behind quickly, but when Pippin hesitated she waved him on.

"I will be fine. Run, now! I know my maps - that light is coming from Minas Morgul – tell Mithrandir, _go!"_

Minas Morgul.

 _"…and if the path of Cirith Ungol were not treacherous enough in itself, it also takes them close to Minas Morgul – dangerously close…"_

Those had been Gandalf's words, when he told Pippin what path Frodo had taken, and they spurred the hobbit on through the city. He had no idea how he was going to find the wizard, but before he had to stop and ask for directions, he found him, standing on another balcony and staring out at the green light.

He did not turn to look at Pippin, but he held out his hand and the hobbit hurried over. Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder, drawing him close.

"It is beginning now, Pippin. The armies of Mordor are advancing, now."

"Could, could something have happened to Frodo?" asked Pippin breathlessly. "If, if they were near Minas Morgul…"

"I do not know," said Gandalf. His hand tightened on Pippin's shoulder. "I do not know, but I think this signal is for our benefit. To let us know that doom is at hand. The armies of Mordor will be here, ere midnight tomorrow. I'm afraid, my dear Pippin, that the siege of Gondor has begun."

* * *

Still shivering like a pup in their first beating, the warg let out another soft whine, but there was still no answer. He pressed himself further into the corner of the cold, putrid cave, and howled sadly. Again, there was no reply.

Sorrow was closing in around him, a sadness unlike any that he had ever felt before. The warg knew pain, and fear, and anger, and hunger, but this was none of those. There was fear there, it was true – it was what had made him flee from his dwarf, and what had his paws frozen to the stone beneath them.

But it was not the same as the sadness crushing his chest. That was different, a concept that the warg had never even dreamed of, a feeling that he could not hope to name.

He wanted his dwarf, and his lady, and their two little friends. He wanted to know that they were breathing and whole, that they were not hurt. He wanted them to come and find him, and stroke his ears, and tell him that it was alright.

He had tried to find them – even with the terror coursing through him, as soon as he heard his little lady scream, he had turned back, but he got lost. The tunnels were dark and grim, and the scent of his pack was muddled and masked by the piercing, acidic stench of the great spider.

Nothing had ever scared the warg as much as the spider – because it was not really a spider at all. He had sensed it when they first entered the tunnels, a heavy, smoke-like aura on the air, but it was only when he heard the soft, almost inaudible hissing that the horror truly seized him. It was no beast in that cave – it was a demon.

And he had fled from the demon. Fled, and got lost, and become confused. And now he was alone in the stifling darkness, and he could no longer hear his little lady screaming or crying. He could no longer hear his dwarf, or their two little men.

He was alone, cowering in the dark.

He sighed softly, and flopped down onto the dusty, tacky floor. The demon could take him now. If his dwarf and his little lady were gone, there was nothing but anger and hate left to live for. There was only the life he had known before, and he would rather die than go back to that.

But as his nose hit the ground, a soft breeze swept through the cave, and on it he caught a familiar scent.

His dwarf.

He rose, keeping his nose low, and then slowly peeled himself away from the wall, following the smell through the caves. He could smell blood, too, and the acrid stench of the spider-demon, and he began to move faster, coming at last to a chamber that opened up to the sky above. There was a splatter of blood on the ground – his dwarf's blood – and it trailed into another tunnel.

A trail.

With a soft whimper, the warg hurried onwards, the scent growing stronger and stronger as he did. But as his dwarf's scent grew, so did the smell of the spider, and the warg's limbs began to shake. The tunnel around him shrunk a little, and he began to hear the soft hissing of the spider once more. His hackles rose, and the urge to run rose up within him, but he could smell his dwarf, and he could smell his little lady, and he could also smell the slinking little 'Gollum' that they had made company with.

And he could smell blood.

His dwarf and his little lady were in trouble, and the spider was in his way.

Lowering himself into a crawl, he crept along the tunnel, until he came upon the hulking, heaving bulk of the spider blocking the tunnel. He froze, but it did not seem to have heard him. It was curled in on itself, and its hisses were breathless, almost pained. Its blood was seeping towards the warg's paws – a lot of its blood.

It was hurt. The spider was very hurt.

And it was in his way.

He was Toothy, steed of the kind dwarf and the little lady, and this spider, demon or not, was in his way.

He leant back on his haunches for just a moment, and then he pounced, embedding his claws in the spider's back. It let out a mighty shriek that sent pain screeching through Toothy's ears, but the rush of the hunt was within him, and his urge to get back to his master was growing stronger than any pain or fear. He dragged his claws down through the spider's flesh, dragging it down towards the ground, and making a small gap between the beast and the ceiling.

A gap big enough for Toothy to squeeze through. He ran up the spider's back, making sure to pierce its skin as deeply as his claws were able to as he vaulted over its head. It shrieked and gurgled again, but his paws hit the stone before her and Toothy ran, as fast as he could without losing the scent. She would not catch him – not today.

In fact, though Toothy did not know this, Shelob would not catch anyone again today, or indeed ever again. Sam's blow to her stinger had almost taken the strength from her, and the warg's frantic attempt to get back to his pack had bled the last of her life away.

Of course, without knowing this, the warg's heart still raced at the thought of being caught, and it was with a whimper of delight that he caught his first glimpse of daylight. He pelted towards it and burst out into a rocky, dusty land, so quickly that he tripped over something sprawled over the ground. Skidding into a turn, he saw the corpse of the Gollum on the ground beneath him.

Carefully, the warg leant forward, sniffing at the body. It was dead, alright, and though Toothy did not think this much of a loss, worry rose within him. Was his dwarf dead too? His little lady?

He threw back his head and let out a low howl, but nothing replied.

With a huff, he put his nose back to the ground, and caught a scent that made his hackles rise once more.

Orcs.

Orcs, and his dwarf, and his little lady, and their little men. He shook himself down from nose to tail, and cleared his throat with a growl.

He was Toothy, and his masters were in trouble, and would do anything, and everything, to find them.

 **And there we leave it for tonight! Have a lovely evening, leave a review if you feel like it, and most importantly take care!**


	87. Chapter 87: The Tower of Cirith Ungol

**Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter. Apologies for the delay in getting this one up – it's been a busy week and it is a long chapter. In any case, I hope that you enjoy it, and please do forgive me any typos that may have snuck their way in.**

 **Chapter Eighty-Seven: The Tower of Cirith Ungol**

 _They were screaming. His parents were screaming, screaming for him, and Bróin could not reach them. He was floundering in a sea of black water, a sea that stretched in every direction and bled into the black of the horizon, and his parents were yet feet away from him, their heads barely above the surface. Bróin threw himself towards them, tried desperately to claw his way through the water, but he drew no nearer to them._

 _He tried, and tried, but he was not fast enough, and as he reached out the waves crashed down over them, and Marta disappeared beneath the surface._

 _"Ama!" Bróin screamed, and his voice was the voice of a child. He stretched his hands out towards her, screaming and begging, but she did not reappear. Desperate, he reached for his father, but when Bombur met his eyes with a look of utter hopelessness, and then his head tipped back, and the black waters closed over his face. "No! Ada-"_

 _"Bróin! Help, Bróin, help us!"_

 _Gasping, Bróin turned, and a wave crashed down over his face, buffeting him underwater. He fought back up to the surface and saw Bodin clinging to a great, black log, fighting to stay above the water. But no – it was not a log – it was Bofin, floating on his back. His eyes were open and unseeing, and there was blood streaming out from the stumps of his legs and turning the black waves red. And Bodin was clinging to him, clinging to him and sinking them both._

 _"Bodin – Bofin!" Bróin choked, pulling himself through the water, but they just seemed to be getting further and further away._

 _But someone was getting closer to him – Orla was struggling to keep afloat, just a hands' span away from Bróin, but he could not reach her, and she was crying and begging and holding onto Ola's hand, but Ola was floating face down in the water. She was not moving, and Bolin was draped over her back, tears streaking down his face as he reached out and screamed for Bróin._

 _"Help us, help us, Bróin please! Ple-" A torrent of water poured down Bolin's throat and cut him off, and his hand splashed down into the water._

 _And his hand landed between two pale, upturned faces staring at the surface, little Bowin and baby Olin, their eyes clouded and open, their little mouths agape in an echo of their last breaths –_

 _And then a great wave crested over his siblings, crashing down in what had to be slow motion, and Bróin howled._

 _"No, no!"_

 _But the wave crashed down anyway, and thrust him down deep into the darkness, and he felt water flood his lungs. Frantic, he clawed back up, but when his head broke into the air it was to see nothing – nothing but choppy black water stretching out in every direction._

 _His brothers were gone. His sisters were gone. His parents were gone._

 _He was alone, alone in an ocean of black water._

 _Alone – until another voice screamed for him, and his heart stammered to a halt._

 _"Bróin! Bróin,_ please _!"_

 _It was Nelly, and he could see her, see her, and he could see Frodo and Sam behind her, but they slowly sank beneath the surface, and he screamed, swimming but not moving, desperately trying to reach them, but the water closed over their heads and they were gone, and he sobbed, and stopped trying._

 _He let the water drag him down, let himself sink down into the dark, let the water crush the air and the life from him. And still he heard screaming, the screaming of his family and his friends and his people, and he sunk further, and his arm and chest began to burn, and he sunk deeper. The water poured down his throat and filled his chest, and the screaming grew louder, and he sank deeper. One by one, voices fell out of the scream until only one remained, one voice screaming in terror and agony, screaming alone._

 _Frodo._

Bróin gasped a hitched breath and his eyes flew open, but as they focused on the room around him horror crushed down upon him like a wave of black water. He was bound hand and foot with coarse rope, cruelly tight, and his skin was bare against the cold stone of the floor – only his underpants had been left to him. But none of that was what pierced his heart in the moment he opened his eyes. It was not the throbbing pain in his arm and his side, nor the sickness swirling in his stomach, nor even the sight of bloodied orc weapons thrown on the ground mere feet away from his face.

No.

It was that Frodo was still crying out, and now Bróin could see why.

The hobbit had been forced onto his knees, and a great orc was standing behind him, its hand twisted in his hair. It was keeping Frodo's neck back, and holding his bound hands up behind his head to keep him still, while another orc struck him with a thick, leather whip. The bare skin of Frodo's chest was raw and red and bleeding, and as Bróin watched the orc twisted the weapon with a flourish, driving its wooden handle into a large, ugly sting on the hobbit's stomach.

Frodo's scream ripped through Bróin's soul, and the dwarf tugged desperately at his restraints.

"Stop!" he roared, even as fear begged him to whimper. The ropes around that bound him were tighter even than the chains of Saruman, but he had to do something, he had to stop them from hurting Frodo. "Leave him alone!"

The orcs paused, and turned, and their eyes fell on Bróin. "He's awake," snarled one, and Bróin caught sight of Frodo's terrified face. The hobbit shook his head slightly, but then Bróin glanced down, and he felt a wave of horror so intense that he had to be drowning.

Frodo's neck was bare.

The Ring was gone.

The orc with the whip spat at Bróin, but did not bother even to walk across the room to him. "Shut it, runt! You'll get yours when we're done with your master."

Even as fear coursed through him, confusion furrowed Bróin's brow. "Master?"

The orc holding Frodo's hair laughed, clearly mistaking the dwarf's bafflement for begging. "Your master can't help you now, _snaga._ Can he?" He wrenched Frodo's head back further, eliciting a guttural cry from the hobbit as he was forced to stare into the orc's face. "Not that he'd bother." The orc thrust Frodo's face forward again, and turned his eyes to Bróin. "But you listen to Gorbag, snaga, and you shut it. Another word before your time, and I'll cut out your tongue."

Gorbag gave a laugh like a braying ass. "Look how confused he is, Shagrat! You're changing hands, snaga. We're taking possession of all your master owns, including you – you belong to Mordor now."

Bróin swallowed, and kept his mouth shut. A shiver of fear ran through his heart as the orcs laughed, and turned their backs on him. Snaga – he knew that word. It meant 'slave' in the Black Speech – did they think he was Frodo's slave? But why?

Bile rose in his throat as he remembered that it was also a given name used among orcs – a name that had once belonged to the creature that had broken him before. Snaga had been the name of the piece of filth that had tried to rape Nelly.

To be given that title, that name, made him want to be sick, but the thought of Nelly made it ten times worse.

Was she here? Where was Sam? Where they dead already, where they –

No. No, no, no, they could not be here – if Nelly was at the mercy of orcs again, orcs that did not have orders about keeping her whole, orcs that would –

That would do what Snaga had tried –

With no one there to stop them –

Bróin choked, and then retched, spitting up bile onto the already filthy ground. The orcs ignored him.

"Now, I'll ask one more time," sneered Shagrat, twisting a tighter grip around Frodo's hair. "What were you doing in Cirith Ungol?"

"I… told you..." wheezed Frodo. "Got lost…"

Bróin saw Gorbag draw the whip up high and he squeezed his eyes shut, turning his face away. But he still heard it, the lash of the orc's strike, the strangled cry it drew from Frodo. He wanted to bellow at the orcs until he was blue in the face, to scream and fail and make enough of a nuisance of himself that they would have to stop, but he knew it was useless. They had already failed, and that meant they were good as dead already.

And Bróin was scared.

Very scared.

"Alright then," purred one of the orcs, and Bróin's toes curled up. "Let's try a different line of enquiry…"

The other orc laughed, and Bróin heard the scraping of a heavy bucket across the stone steps. Frodo whimpered, and Bróin opened his eyes in time to see the orc thrust Frodo's head into a bucket of dirty water.

"No!" Bróin cried, straining against his bonds as Frodo thrashed and flailed helplessly, but Shagrat met Bróin's eyes and pushed the hobbit's head deeper underwater, and Gorbag turned with a scowl.

"What did we say?" he growled, striding over to Bróin. Wincing, Bróin curled in on himself, but protecting his stomach did nothing to lessen the pain as the whip lashed across his back. He clenched his teeth and fought against screaming, but as the fourth strike came down a whimper broke free, and by the sixth he was crying out every time it hit his skin. He counted twenty-six lashes before, at last, they stopped, but he might have lost count.

All he knew was that his back was burning, and Frodo had not come up.

Frodo had not come up.

His feet were still kicking and scrambling, but his struggles were weakening, and his body shuddering, and Bróin felt treacherous tears hot on his cheeks as he watched.

And all he could do was watch. He wanted to scream, to wail or plead or beg, but he knew nothing would work. It was utterly hopeless.

Gorbag stalked back over towards Shagrat and kicked Frodo's legs. With a nod, Shagrat dragged Frodo's face from the bucket, and Bróin sighed in relief as the hobbit coughed and spluttered, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Now," purred Shagrat, pulling Frodo's face close to his own. "What were you doing in Cirith Ungol? We know you weren't lost – we know what _this_ means…"

Bróin narrowed his eyes slightly to try and see what it was that the orc dangled before Frodo's face, but when he recognised it his heart sank. It was the small braid that Frodo usually wore hidden beneath his curls against the back of his neck, strung with a bead bearing Bilbo's sigil, another adorned with a rune marking him the son of a lord, and a third – the most dangerous, perhaps – bearing the personal sigil of the King Under the Mountain.

"We have more spies among dwarven scum than you would think – we can read your filthy little beads as well as you can! A lordling, you are, and kin of the wretched thief Bilbo Baggins – yes, we know all about Bilbo Baggins." Shagrat spat as though the name of Bilbo tasted foul in his mouth. "And we know that you are dear to the swine that calls himself King Under the Mountain. A little runt of a lordling with a king's bead wouldn't be wandering around Minas Morgul getting lost. So you tell the truth now, or next time I won't bring you back up."

"Watching!" Frodo gasped, his chest heaving, and tugging at his open wounds. "Just – just watching, sending word – just watching, I swear!"

"Spying?" snarled Shagrat, pushing Frodo's head back towards the bucket. Frodo whimpered, and Bróin had to purse his lips to stop himself from howling.

"Yes," begged the hobbit desperately. "Thorin just, just wanted someone to keep watch, that's all, that's all! We weren't to engage, just, just to watch, to spy. Please, I'm telling the truth, I mean it – no, please-"

Again, Bróin closed his eyes and turned his face away, but he heard the splash, and the muted cries of Frodo beneath the water, and he heard the snickering of the orcs. He held his breath with Frodo, counting the seconds, and his lungs were burning by the time he heard them wrench his cousin out of the water again.

"Who else was with you?" demanded Gorbag, and Bróin's eyes snapped open. "Kings don't send their favourite little play-things out on missions like this with no more than a slave for company!"

"No- wait!" Frodo screamed as he was pushed towards the bucket. Though Bróin could not see his face, he could hear his cousin's ragged breathing, and he knew that Shagrat was holding him above the water. For a moment. "There, there was another, another dwarf, S-Soren, son of Ragan, b-but he was caught by the spider in the tunnels!"

"Then who cut old Shelob's stinger off?" growled Shagrat, and a spark of hope caught in Bróin's heart. If the spider had been struck after he and Frodo fell, it had to have been done by Nelly, or maybe Sam, and if the orcs still thought it a mystery, they might have got away.

"I don't know, I don't know, truly, I don't! It, it might have been Ióni, dwarves don't fall so fast to poison – he may have struck after I fell!"

Bróin blinked, wondering what the old apprentice of Uncle Bifur's had to do with any of this, but then Shagrat and Gorbag looked at him, and a lump grew in his throat that had nothing to do with fear.

Frodo had hidden Bróin's name better than his own.

"Did you?" asked Shagrat, icy disbelief in his voice. "Speak, snaga!"

"I – I struck the spider," he said, desperate to keep any knowledge of Nelly and Sam from their captors. "If I severed its sting I did not notice – it had already struck me twice, my head was clouded…"

The orcs turned away from Bróin again.

"Are you _sure_ there was no one else?" growled Shagrat, and then Frodo was pushed under again, and Bróin let out a whimper of his own. Again, he held his breath, and again he felt ready to burst before they brought Frodo up again. "Are you sure?"

"Certain," Frodo rasped, shivering violently. "I swear, I swear it!"

Shagrat glanced at Gorbag and shrugged, and then he threw Frodo down to the ground. The hobbit spluttered and choked, his entire body jerking and shuddering as he coughed, but the orcs ignored him, and turned to Bróin.

"So, snaga – has your master spoken true? If you tell us of his lies, we shall reward you greatly…"

"He does not lie," said Bróin, shaking his head slightly. "I swear, he tells no lie!"

"How would he know?" choked Frodo, and Bróin glanced at him. The hobbit looked up weakly, and spoke louder. "I am not stupid… I would not trust any secrets to a slave. Interrogate him if you will, but you will learn nothing new."

"Very well," said Gorbag, a slow smile slipping over his face. "In that case, how about a little game? We will give you what you want, snaga – we'll give you a chance at freedom. We'll let you back into old Shelob's lair, let you see how far you'll get. All you need to do is to kill the worm you once called master."

It took Bróin a moment to realise what the orc was saying. He noticed Shagrat stiffen and Frodo close his eyes, and then he understood what Gorbag wanted him to do.

"No," he said, shaking his head and fighting to keep anger in his voice – and hysteria out of it. "No, I can't – I won't! Not, not if you beat me a thousand times, not if you leave me half-dead and put a knife in my hand, I won't! Ishkhaqwi ai durugnul!"

"You say that now," said Shagrat softly, strolling towards Bróin with a dark smile. "But you'll have time to consider the offer. You're to be kept alive until word comes from Lugbúrz – but when word does come, it'll be down to the Black Pits with you. There you'll work until the flesh falls from your bones, and your death will come as a mercy. By that time, of course, your precious master's head will've already been delivered to his king. Isn't war beautiful?"

With that, the orc seized Bróin's hair and began to drag him across the floor, and Bróin fought helplessly, kicking and thrashing as best he could.

"Get off! Get off me!"

Shagrat paused, and wrenched Bróin up higher. With a grin, he drove his knife into the spider sting on Bróin's stomach, and pain shrieked violently through the young dwarf's body. Pride had no more power over Bróin, and he screamed, trying frantically to cringe away from the blade as it carved its way up his chest, following the line of his sternum to the base of his collar bone.

"What are you doing?" cried Frodo, his anger poorly hiding the fear ringing in his voice. "He knows nothing, I told you!"

Shagrat pulled his knife away and shook Bróin slightly, before dragging him the final few feet across the room and dropping him onto the floor near Frodo. Biting back whimpers, Bróin forced himself to look down at the gash that now split his chest in two. It was a flesh wound, and not deadly deep, but it _hurt,_ it hurt like the staff of Saruman _,_ and the sting on his stomach was writhing in a screeching pain of its own, and nausea was swelling in his gut.

"Oh, this isn't interrogation," said Gorbag with a grin. "This is just for fun."

And then there was a hand clenching Bróin's hair again, and his face was plunged into a bucket of dirty water.

Ten times, they dunked him.

Ten times, they held him under until his lungs felt like they were ablaze, and his heart felt that it could go no further. Ten times, he saw lights flash before his eyes, and felt his head spin away from all sense of thought.

And on the tenth time, they held him long enough to drown the fight from him. He felt himself fall limp, felt his strength give out altogether, felt his mouth open to draw a gulping breath against his will.

Felt the water flood into his lungs.

Heard the distant sound of Frodo screaming.

And then he was dragged up again, and a pair of strong arms crushed his stomach beneath his ribs, forcing the water back up again. It felt like someone was driving their fist up his throat, and he choked and coughed and retched, and then, once again, he was tossed onto the stone beside Frodo.

Tears were streaking down the hobbit's face, and he was breathing heavily, but his screams had died when Bróin drew breath, and now he made no sound.

"That," said Shagrat smugly, "was a bit of fun. Come, Gorbag. Let's get this stuff to Lugbúrz! We'll be back for you later."

Bróin forced himself to watch the orcs gather up everything they had taken from them, and collect their weapons from the ground. To his surprise, Shagrat and Gorbag did not close trapdoor behind them. For all intents and purposes, it looked unwatched, unguarded, and it scared him. In Isengard, he and Nelly had been bound by chain and iron, but here they were not even tied to the wall. They were only bound hand and foot, and by simple rope at that. Somehow, that made his heart sink deeper. There was so little chance of escape that the enemy were not even guarding against such a possibility.

 _Of course it won't be possible, if they already have the ring. We've already lost._

"Are you alright?" begged Frodo, his eyes red and voice raw. "Bróin, you-"

"I'm fine," he mumbled, shaking his head and studying his cousin's face. Frodo was paler than a corpse, and his skin was just as mottled, between the dark rings beneath his eyes and the bruises on his forehead. He was shivering, and though his eyes were wide, they were also weary, almost dazed. "I – I'll live, Frodo, are _you_ alright? I know you're hurt – how badly?"

Frodo just shook his head slightly, a tear tracing down his cheek. "I… I'm so sorry, Bróin. I'm so sorry."

Bróin frowned. "Did they strike my head, too? What have you to feel sorry for?"

"I failed," whispered Frodo, his voice small and broken. "The Ring – I thought I could do it, but I was too weak, I failed and, and everything, _everything_ will die, because I-"

"Don't be stupid," Bróin croaked, trying to smile, though tears burnt his eyes and a lump grew in his throat. "It wasn't your fault, Frodo, no more than it was mine. Yes, we, we failed but, we did all we could, we… we tried, we… we are both sorry, but you don't need to be sorry to me."

Fresh tears came to Frodo's eyes. "Well, I am sorry for you, all the same. I'm sorry I said you were a slave – I… they assumed given your clothes and your lack of beads and your… well, your hair. I hoped that if they thought you a slave, they would be less likely to… to…"

"I know what you did. You shouldn't – I'm here to protect you, not the other way 'round, Frodo, you shouldn't've-"

"No," said Frodo, a surprising fierceness in his voice. With a quick glance at the trapdoor, he shuffled the short distance between them across the floor, grabbing Bróin's hands and pressing his forehead to the dwarf's. Though Bróin's hands were half-numb from the ropes, he managed to entangle his fingers with Frodo's, and he felt a fraction of his fear slip away. "No, this… this was never about me, Bróin. This was us – our family. You – if anything, you need protecting more than I do – you're not even an adult, after all. Not even halfway through your tweens…"

Bróin tried to laugh, but it came out more like a sob. He closed his eyes. "Didn't realise my hair was so bad I looked like a slave."

Frodo's fingers tightened around Bróin's, but his voice was weaker when he replied. "It doesn't, really, but it's clear it's been cut. Put that with the lack of jewellery and the clothes of men… I just hoped that they would… but they hurt you anyway."

There was so much pain in Frodo's voice, and so much weariness and guilt, and Bróin could not take it. "They're orcs, Frodo, it's what they do."

For a long moment, there was silence, but then Frodo's fingers tightened around Bróin's once more. "Bróin… will you do something for me?"

"Depends on what it is," said Bróin carefully, opening his eyes. Frodo was staring straight at him, looking hopelessness and resolution wrought in equal measure on his face.

"I am going to ask you to do something, order it, if I have to," he said slowly. "It will seem like the last thing in the world you should do, but I am begging you, Bróin – _begging_ you… if they make you that offer again, I want you to take it."

Bróin's blood ran cold. "What?"

"Shh," said Frodo, blinking tears from his hopeless eyes. "Listen, Bróin, if – if we have truly failed, we have no chance of escape. They will kill me, and they will send Thorin my head. No, look at me, Bróin, they will. And if you don't do something, they will work you to death in the Black Pits, and that – that would be a worse fate than mine. I cannot let that happen, Bróin. So, if the offer comes again, I beg you to take it. You will be quicker, gentler, and I – I would be glad to lay down my life if it means one of us has the chance of escape. I am tired, Bróin, I am so tired, and I – for you to escape… You could get home, you could face the end at Erebor, you could withstand the dark lord to the last-"

"No!" Bróin choked, the moment his voice returned to him. "No, no, I can't, Frodo you're talking madness, no, I-"

"It will be a mercy," pleaded Frodo, even as a tear ran over his nose. "I'm so afraid, and so tired, and I just want it to end. You could make it quick, Bróin, it wouldn't hurt so much-"

"No!" To Bróin's dismay, his words were falling into sobs, breathless, desperate sobs. "No, no, I won't! I can't! I won't, I won't, I won't, you can't make me, you _can't,_ don't ask that of me, _please,_ I can't, I won't, I won't, no, no, no, no-" His voice dissolved into near hysterics, and grief grew ever stronger on Frodo's face.

"Shh, shh, Bróin, breathe!" he begged, tugging his fingers free from Bróin's hand to wipe the tears from the dwarf's cheeks. "Shh, now, I'm sorry, I-"

"Don't," gasped Bróin, shaking his head as fiercely as he could. "Don't ask me that, Frodo, I can't, I _won't –_ I'll tell them my true name and have them deliver my head to Ada alongside yours, I swear it, I'll tell them that before I'd even hurt you, by _Durin,_ Frodo-"

"I do not see the point in both of us dying here, Bróin." Frodo sobbed, and shook his head. "You – you're the one with the chance."

"Would you take it?" Bróin demanded, his voice trembling almost as bad as the rest of him. "Would you kill me, for a chance at getting away through those damned caves – a chance they likely won't even give? You know as well as I do that they would go back on their word – I would be dead before I left Mordor. Would you take that chance, Frodo? Would you kill me?"

Horror welled in Frodo's eyes and he opened his mouth, but with a wince he turned his face away, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter than a whisper, and weaker than a whimper. "No. No, I couldn't do that. I'm sorry, Bróin, I – I'm sorry for asking. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry you're here, and I'm sorry that I failed, and – I'm sorry for _everything,_ Bróin, I'm so, so sorry!"

"I'm sorry, too," mumbled Bróin. When he spoke again, his voice sounded like the voice of a child, even to his own ears. "I – I'm sorry that we're going to die here, Frodo."

He heard a soft whimper, and then felt Frodo's forehead press against his own once more. Swallowing, Bróin reached for the hobbit's hands, taking them tightly.

"Ir-rûzud tanallikhi, id-nûlukh tarazzidi," murmured Frodo, and Bróin squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Will they?" he whispered.

Frodo said nothing.

They must have fallen asleep, because a little while later, Bróin woke up. Frodo's eyes were still closed. He did not know how long they had been sleeping – it was always dark outside, and they had no way of telling the passing of time. But his empty stomach ached fiercely, and he was gasping for a sip of clean water. The blood on his back was dry, and tugging painfully at his wounds, but the agony of the open lashes themselves had faded a little, and his hair was dry. So, it was hours, at least, though he could not tell how many. It felt like thousands.

He knew what he should do, and he tried to do it, peering around the room for any potential weapons, any chance of escape, but there was nothing. The room was empty, bare, save for a stone table a few feet away, and the trapdoor in its centre. If there was anything of use on the table, he did not have the strength to reach it. His back stung, and his chest was split open, and his lungs and throat felt like they had been seared and then crushed in the forge, and there was nothing left in him.

He had nothing left.

It was an exhaustion unlike any he had ever imagined, and he let his head fall down against the stone floor. He stared at Frodo, at the raw, red skin around his neck where the Ring had been. The hobbit's face was grey, and even in sleep he looked like he was in pain. For a moment, Bróin considered waiting him, but he doubted the nightmare could be much worse than their reality, so he let Frodo sleep.

He counted five hundred beats of his own frightened heart before Frodo woke up.

"Ah," murmured the hobbit, closing his eyes the moment after he opened them. "We're still here, then?"

"Unfortunately," replied Bróin, staring up at the ceiling. He could not quite match Frodo's almost casual tone, though he had often tried to respond to peril in the same happy-go-lucky manner as the hobbits.

"Bróin?"

"Mm?"

"Look at me."

His stomach clenched, and Bróin prayed that Frodo was not about to ask him the unthinkable again. Taking a deep breath, he looked at Frodo, and found that the hobbit was smiling through tears.

"I love you, cousin," he said, squeezing Bróin's hand. "I am proud of you."

Bróin sniffed, trying to pretend that he was not weeping. "Right back at you, cousin. We could've done a lot worse."

"Well, well, well, isn't that interesting?" sneered a cruel voice, and Bróin's head jerked upright. To his horror, Gorbag was returning up through the trap door, a long, jagged sword in his hand. " _Cousin_ – now that's not a term you use for a slave, is it?"

Horror coursed through Bróin at the thought of what they would do to Frodo for lying, what they might do to _him_ for going along with it, and he scrambled as upright as he could make it. Beside him, Frodo did the same, and their shoulders pressed against each other as the orc stalked closer.

"Old Shagrat's in Lugbúrz by now, and we've already had word back – there's an old warg rider at the gate talking about a transfer. You're wanted there," he said, jabbing the sword towards Frodo. "But as for you, _cousin,_ well… Lugbúrz has no need of more slaves. And as far as they all know, that's all you are. They don't need you, do they?"

"His father is a great lord!" said Frodo quickly. "If, if you tell them that at Lugbúrz you'll be rewarded, I'm sure you will!"

Gorbag grinned. "But that wouldn't be great punishment for your lies, would it? It's no threat to my neck to bleed your dwarf like a stuck pig. I'll tell them one of the boys got to him, and if you say otherwise, little lordling – well, there's no way to prove you ain't lying. I haven't stuck a dwarf in a long time…"

The orc licked his lips and drew closer, and Bróin scrambled backwards, but almost at once he hit the wall. Frodo lost what little colour he had left, throwing himself in front of Bróin.

"Leave him alone!" he shouted, but his voice trembled with fear, and Gorbag gave a sickening laugh.

"To see the look on your face when my sword rips through his guts will give me greater pleasure than you could ever image," he crooned, grabbing Frodo and shoving him back against the wall.

"Don't, don't touch him!" Frodo yelped desperately, trying to throw himself before Bróin again, but Gorbag shoved his boot into the hobbit's chest and pinned him against the wall.

And Bróin let his head drop back against the stone, turning his face towards Frodo. Dying with his eyes on his cousin was better than dying with Gorbag's ugly face burnt into his mind. Even if Frodo looked more anguished than Bróin had ever seen him.

"No!" begged Frodo brokenly. "No, no, don't do this, please, _please!_ "

Bróin took a deep breath. He would die like a dwarf, not cowering, not flinching –

Gorbag drew his sword back –

 _"No!"_ howled Frodo, and Bróin's chin rose proudly –

And the blade was thrust forward, and he felt it pierce his stomach, and –

Stop.

Frozen, Bróin glanced down, and saw the tip of the sword sunk but an inch into his gut. The rest of the blade was quivering, but otherwise very still.

A low, death gurgle drew his eyes back up to Gorbag, and he saw the tip of a sword sticking out of the villain's chest, but only for a second, for then it was wrenched back out. With one powerful swing of the sword, Gorbag's head was hewn from his neck and cast across the room, and then his body was shoved away to the other side. His sword clattered down at Bróin's feet.

In his place knelt his killer, with a face as grey as a winter's morning, and eyes burning with the fear and fury of the fiercest flame.

"Sam?" Bróin whimpered, unable to believe his eyes. _"Sam?"_

"I'm here," breathed Sam, throwing his arms around both Bróin and Frodo and pulling them close. Relief choking him fiercely, Bróin buried his face in Sam's neck, his fingers clutching at the young Gamgee's waistcoat. The hobbit held him tighter. "I'm here, it's alright now. We're going to get you out of here, just you see."

"Sam! What, how-" began Frodo, his voice still trembling, but Sam cut him off.

"I'll explain later, Frodo," he promised, pulling away from them and taking his knife to their bonds. "I promise – but I don't know how much more time Nelly will be able to buy us. We couldn't exactly take on the whole fortress with just two of us, and the orcs haven't decided to go on holiday or bump each other off to make it easier for us, so we best be quick, now."

"It's too late," choked Frodo. "Sam, they took it. They took the Ring!"

"Begging your pardon, Frodo, but they didn't," said Sam, suddenly going a little pink. He glanced at Bróin, and then took a deep breath, turning his eyes back to Frodo. "See, we… we made a mistake and I'm sorry for it, I'm so sorry for it, but… we thought you were dead. We thought we'd lost you, both of you. So we took it. Just for safekeeping, see, till the job can be done…"

With that, he reached into his pocket, and drew out a familiar chain.

The relief that filled Bróin was so great that his insides seemed to melt away entirely, and his head lolled down against his chest.

 _Thank you, Mahal,_ he prayed, more fervently than he had ever prayed before. _Thank you, thank you, thank you._

"Give it to me," said Frodo slowly, holding out his hand, but Sam hesitated, drawing back a little. Fear and anger rose in Frodo's eyes, and Bróin swallowed. "Sam, give me the ring."

A strange, faraway look passed over Sam's face, an almost wistful look, and his other hand moved towards the ring. "I am not a thief," he said quietly, but his voice was tinged with bitterness, and Bróin's eyes widened. "I did not steal anything!"

"Then prove it!" said Frodo. "Give me the ring. Sam!"

Rage blazed in Sam's eyes, but then he shuddered, and thrust his arm forwards. At once, Frodo snatched the ring from his hand and hung its chain around his neck, breathing out slowly. "You must understand," he murmured, opening his eyes and gripping Sam's arm. "The Ring is my burden. It… it would destroy you, Sam. I can't let that happen."

Sam looked on the verge of tears, but he nodded. "Right you are, Frodo. Come, now, let's get you out of here. Oh, and you'll be wanting this, too!"

He passed Frodo another chain, one that bore a small, mithril shield, and Frodo's eyes filled with tears. He flung himself at Sam, holding him tightly, and Bróin smiled a little.

"Thank you," Frodo whispered, but Sam pushed him away gently.

"Don't go thanking me yet. We've still got to get out of here, and there are orcs everywhere. Here, put these on!" He passed over a couple of elven cloaks. "These ought to keep you a little more camouflaged on the way out, but don't worry about clothes, we have those stashed outside. It's alright now, I promise."

Bróin wrapped the cloak around his shoulders, and shakily rose to his feet. Somehow, the fabric did not catch on the wounds over his back, and its warmth released a small sigh of relief from his lips. The pain made him sway a little on his feet, but stood all the same, and Frodo stood beside him.

"You look awful," murmured Sam, tears sparkling in his eyes as he looked them up at down. "Are – can you walk? Can you climb? If we have to rethink…"

"We can do whatever you need us to do," swore Bróin, and Frodo nodded.

"Let's just go, Sam," he whispered. "With any luck adrenalin shall carry us down, if our legs cannot."

"Right. In that case, let's stop talking and start moving – and keep quiet, now. There're still orcs about." With that, Sam hurried over to the trapdoor, peering down carefully. Then he nodded again, and hopped down out of sight. Frodo glanced at Bróin and they quickly followed. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but then he gave a small hiss, and Bróin and Frodo whirled around.

Sam was standing by a small window, beckoning to them, and they hurried over.

"This is our way out, now," murmured Sam, picking up the end of a length of thin rope. "But the orcs're coming up here faster than I might've hoped. Now, below this here window there's a bit of a blind spot between the watchtowers. It's a long way down, but this is real elven rope here, and I know it'll hold."

Frodo's eyes widened, and he stared out of the window. "Sam, that must be at least two hundred feet!"

"It can't be helped, Frodo," said Sam, worry clear in his eyes. "It's the only way out that won't take us past hundreds of armed orcs. You ought to go first, Frodo, just in case they catch us."

Frodo opened his mouth, but Bróin raised his eyebrows, and the hobbit sighed heavily. He stared at Bróin, and then at Sam, and then he closed his eyes. He could not have more clearly said he did not want to leave them if he had screamed it aloud. "Very well. I'll be quick as I can."

"Aye, that'd be good. If anything goes wrong, rendezvous with Nelly at the entrance to the spider tunnels," said Sam, and he tossed the rope down the side of the tower, tugging at the knot that secured it to a nearby pillar. It did not budge. With a pale smile, Sam turned to Frodo, and helped him onto the windowsill.

It was a good thing that the hobbits had been raised in Erebor, for Frodo was no stranger to abseiling, and wounded and weak as he was, he was soon well on his way down the side of the tower. Sam stared out of the window, watching him descend, but there was not enough space for them to both see comfortably outside, so Bróin just leant against the wall. He could hear the harsh voices of the orcs from all over the tower, but none seemed to be coming nearer – not yet, at least.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up, his face grave, and Bróin smiled as best he could.

"Thank you. For saving me. Another moment-"

Sam flinched, shaking his head slightly. "I thought I was too late," he said, his voice hollow. "I – I heard him threatening you and I climbed as fast as I could, but when I heard Frodo – I thought I'd come too late."

"Well, you weren't," he said seriously. "And I cannot thank you enough."

Sam gave a sad smile of his own, shaking his head slightly. "You're my cousin, Bróin. All the thanks I need is for you to be here, alive and whole."

Trying not to cry, Bróin surged forward, seizing Sam tightly in his arms. He felt the hobbit's arms wrap around him, hold him tight, and for a moment then stood there, but then Sam gasped, and tugged Bróin down.

A few moments later, a large orc strode up the stairs, and Bróin's heart seized. They stayed still as stone, still as they could possibly could, and the orc strode past them, muttering under its breath as it peered out the window opposite them. Sam tugged Bróin's wrist.

 _"Go!"_ he signed fiercely. _"Now, quick!"_ Bróin shook his head, but Sam shook his shoulder. _"Now, or there won't be time for me to follow. Go, go!"_

Desperately, Bróin slipped up and out of the window, but at first, he did not take the rope. Instead, he clung from the windowsill by his fingertips, peering down to make sure that Frodo had reached the bottom. He could just make out the hobbit's tiny figure below him, and he took a deep breath, grabbing onto the rope with his hands and legs.

There was no time to abseil properly – not with Sam's life on the line, so Bróin let himself slip down the rope as quickly as he dared. He could feel it burning his hands, tearing the skin from his palms and his legs, but he did not care, and did not slow until his feet struck the floor. With a gasp, he stumbled away from the rope, staring up at the far-off window.

Sam did not appear.

"Come on," Bróin whispered, and a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched, but it was only Frodo, pale as death.

"Where's Sam?"

"There was an – oh, no… _no!"_

Frodo let out a soft cry, and they staggered back, for the figure leaning out of the window was not Sam.

"No, no!" moaned Bróin, and beside him Frodo stood rooted to the spot.

"Sam?" he whispered. "Sam?"

The orc peered down, its gaze fell upon Bróin and Frodo, but then it stiffened, and lurched forwards, out of the window. Even as they leapt backwards, the orc landed at their feet, and its head split open on the ground. There was a small, familiar knife sticking out of its back. Cringing, Bróin looked up, and saw a small, grey figure clambering out the window. It took the rope, and began to run down the side of the tower, and Bróin swallowed.

"Sam," breathed Frodo, and he swayed on the spot. Bróin grabbed his arm, and together they waited until Sam's feet hit the ground. When he saw their pale faces, and the orc at their feet, he gave a sheepish smile.

"Nothing to worry about," he said, wiping his hands on his trousers. "But let's be getting out of here before these dead orcs raise any alarms now, shall we?"

They nodded, stumbling forwards, and Sam quickly put his arm around Frodo's waist, supporting his weight. He glanced at Bróin, but the dwarf shook his head quickly. He did not need carrying, not yet. He was a dwarf. He would endure.

Scurrying through the shadows, they hurried away from the base of the tower, following Sam through a path that wove between rock and crevice, and climbed upwards. Soon, Bróin's breathing grew laborious, and his steps began to fumble. The exhaustion racking through him was growing by the minute, and the adrenalin of their escape was fading.

But Sam had not forgotten him, and he looked over his shoulder often. "Just a little further now," he promised. "Just a little further."

They wound their way up into the mountains, and vaguely Bróin wondered why they were going in the opposite direction to Mount Doom, going back the way that they had come. He did not have the strength to ask, though, not until they arrived an unfamiliar entrance to a very familiar tunnel.

"Sam," worried Bróin. "Sam, the spider, the-"

"It's alright," murmured Sam. "We're not going back in the tunnels, but there's a cave nearby, a tiny little one just back here, and that's where we're going. It's too small to be much use to orcs, and there's no way that big old spider could get in if it tried."

Nevertheless, Bróin's arm and stomach seared at the sight of the tunnels, and he felt nausea rise within him, but he clamped it down and followed Frodo and Sam off of the path, and around a small bend. Sure enough, they came to a small cave, one that had even Sam ducking his head as he led them inside and round a slight bend to where their baggage was stowed. Sam settled Frodo and Bróin down on the floor and then began to bustle about them, first giving them a little lembas and water each, and then tending to their wounds as best he could. He worked on Frodo first – Bróin insisted.

"Where is Nelly?" he asked, and Sam glanced over his shoulder.

"She should be back any minute," he said uncertainly, and Bróin's heart skipped several beats.

"And if she's not?"

"She was making a distraction," said Sam, his voice much shakier than usual. "See, Toothy came back and found us, and we came up with a plan. She dressed up as an orc and rode straight up to the gate, talking about getting the prisoners transferred to Lugbúrz, like we heard the orcs talk about. Now, we didn't think they'd just hand you over without any official signs, so that was why I snuck up the back, see? Nelly was going to curse them all to Mordor and then ride away. It sounded like that's what she did."

Bróin tried to keep his breathing steady. The plan made sense – and the roles made sense. Nelly was a much better liar than Sam, quick on her toes and great at improvising, and if Sam had the ring then he could sneak up unseen, but all Bróin could think about was the whip coming down on his back, and the water pouring down his throat, and the word _snaga_ thrown at him.

And the image of Nelly on the filthy floor of a forsaken cave, her trousers down around her ankles and an orc straddled over her, ready to –

Frodo cried out in fear, and Bróin looked up. At once he cringed back, reaching for a weapon, any weapon, for a warg and a fully armoured orc stood in the entrance to the cave, blocking out the sun.

And then the orc gave a cry, and pulled off its helmet.

And beneath the helmet was a face that Bróin knew better than his own, even though it was currently covered in what looked like soot, or dirt.

 _Nelly._

"Oh, thank Mahal!" she gasped, falling to her knees and scrambling towards them as Toothy lowered onto his stomach, crawling into the cave with a happy whine. Nelly threw her arms around both Frodo and Bróin much the way Sam had, and then she pulled back and kissed Frodo's forehead. "Are you alright?"

He nodded weakly, offering a small shadow of a smile, and she kissed his forehead once more, before turning to Bróin.

With tears in her eyes, Nelly placed her trembling hands on Bróin's cheeks, studying his face carefully. Her eyes travelled down, widening at the sight of the spider's sting, and the knife wound Shagrat had dragged up his sternum, and the gash where Gorbag's knife had begun to stick him. The wider her eyes grew, the more horror and anger poured into them, and she shook her head slowly.

"Sam?" she whispered, still looking at Bróin. "Did you kill them?"

"Just two," said Sam gravely, and Nelly's jaw clenched.

"I want to go back," she seethed, glaring up at Sam. "I want to kill them all."

In an instant, panic rose within Bróin, and he grabbed her wrist. "No, don't, Nelly that's suicide, don't!"

"Shh, Bro," she murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead as her gaze softened. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

Bróin's fear melted into relief, and as it did, he felt what little strength he had left bleed from him. He tumbled forward into Nelly, and her arms closed tight around him, holding him close. His fingers sank into her hair, and his face pressed into her shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice beginning to break as she held him tighter. "I'm so sorry, both of you. We – we thought you were dead. We were idiots and this, all of this – this was our fault. We didn't think things through, and then it was too late – they got you and they hurt you and I am so sorry…"

"It's alright," mumbled Bróin, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply. "I'd've been just as much of a mess, if it were you. I wouldn't've remembered Mirkwood either"

"It isn't your fault," added Frodo wearily. "Truly."

Sam and Nelly said nothing, but Sam returned to tending Frodo's wounds, and Nelly rocked Bróin slightly in her arms.

"I thought you were dead," she whimpered, so quietly he was sure that her words were for his ears only. "I'm so glad you're safe, I'm so glad you're safe. I'm so sorry… I love you, Bróin. I love you, _so_ much."

"I love you too," he murmured, closing his eyes tighter.

Nelly sniffed, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, before gently pulling away. There were two clear streaks of pale skin on her cheeks, where her tears had washed away the soot, though as soon as she wiped her cheeks they were smudged over. Catching Bróin's glance, she smiled.

"I can mimic an orc's voice well enough, but I'd stick out like a sore thumb if I was pale as the moon now, wouldn't I?" she said, reaching out for a nearby bag and quickly pouring a little water over her hands. Except no, it was not water – it stank of one of Óin's cleaning ointments. "Now, let's get those wounds of yours cleaned up. Sam's overtaking us."

"Yes, because it is definitely a race," snorted Sam.

Toothy gave another soft whine, and Bróin gave a tired smile, reaching out with his bare toes to scratch the wag's nose. "You came back!"

"Came all the way down to the tower to find us," said Sam proudly, nodding at the warg with significantly more affection than he had ever shown Toothy before.

"And helped wildly with making me look like an orc general, though I'm not sure they quite bought it in the end," said Nelly. "They didn't realise I wasn't an orc, I don't think, but I'm pretty sure they knew I wasn't from Lugbúrz. A couple tried to tail me – that's what took so long in getting back – but Toothy and I took care of them, didn't we?"

"I'm glad he's back," said Frodo, sounding almost as exhausted as Bróin felt. "But there's just one thing…"

"Just one?" asked Nelly, but the soft smile she gave froze on her face at Frodo's next question.

"For now. Where is Sméagol?"

 **Phew, that was a mammoth chapter! I hope you enjoyed it, and I can't wait to hear what you think.**

 **Hopefully, I should be able to update next Monday as well, but I won't make any promises. Until next time, take care!**


	88. Chapter 88: The Madness of Denethor

**Hey there! Sorry about the delay in this one, I've had a rough two weeks, to be honest. Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter!**

 **As ever, please forgive any typos here.**

 **Chapter Eighty-Eight: The Madness of Denethor**

It was the darkest noon that Pippin had ever seen. A dark cloud hung over the Pelennor Fields like a thick, black smoke, and what little sunlight filtered through was grey, and dim. Some of the men had lit torches in an effort to chase the darkness away, but the shadow seemed to cling around them, dimming their glow and making the flames look cold, and cruel. Gandalf said the darkness was a device of Sauron's, a way to allow his army to travel during the daytime.

If that was the truth, it had worked.

Mordor had reached them.

The army was bigger than Pippin could have ever imagined, and its front line formed an impenetrable wall around the city, arcing around to meet the mountains on either side. There would be no escaping Minas Tirith now, unless there was a way to flee back into the mountains. Not that Pippin was going to flee. No – he was a dwobbit of Erebor, and the folk of Erebor would never flee from a fight.

He wanted to flee. So, so badly – he wanted to turn and fly until the wind brought him home, until it delivered him safely to his dwarves, or his parents, or his cousins, but that was not an option. This was where he would stand – for better or worse.

This was where he would play his own little part in the war, where he would fight for his friends and his family and his freedom. After all, when he joined the conspiracy, he had not been expecting a picnic. This was his choice. His consequence.

And he was so, so afraid.

Pippin had never wanted to be in a battle, but he was starting to become sure that waiting on the edge of one that he could not escape was worse than the fighting itself. He stood on the great, outer wall with Gandalf, watching as the orcs moved their war machines into place. There were catapults and wheeled battering rams, and great towers pushed by armoured trolls, and they most definitely looked big enough to peek over even the tallest of the city's walls. Pippin shuddered.

"It will begin soon," said Gandalf heavily, putting a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. "Soon, the armies of Mordor will make their final advance."

"They haven't already?" asked Pippin weakly. As it was the orcs filled the Pelennor Fields – they looked immeasurable, unconquerable, and to imagine more joining them made Pippin want to shriek.

"Not quite," said Gandalf, nodding towards a prominent figure clad in dark mail. "The commander is keeping his troops out of bow range, for now. When he is ready, he will order them forward, and the assault on the city will begin in earnest, though it would not surprise me if we face some fire from their catapults, first."

"Wonderful," muttered Pippin, swallowing hard.

Gandalf gave a sad smile and turned away from the army, staring down at Pippin. "My dear young hobbit... Would you do something for me?"

"Of course," said Pippin, though he could not imagine what he would be capable of doing.

Gandalf crouched down and put his hand on Pippin's shoulder, meeting his eyes carefully. "I want you to go and guard Faramir. I fear for him – Denethor has not made nearly enough nuisance of himself while Imrahil and I readied his city, and I do not trust his absence."

"I – I can fight," protested Pippin reluctantly, and Gandalf's smile grew sadder.

"I know. You can, and there may be a time when you will have to, before this day is over. But the front line of battle is no place for a hobbit – especially not one in his tweens, and I need someone that I can trust to stay with Faramir. Please, Peregrin Took, will you do this for me?"

Pippin paused, his eyes drifting back to the army. More than anything, he wanted to leave the front line. If he was guarding Faramir he might avoid the worst of the fighting, he would be safer, but he would also be leaving the fighting to others. Dwalin always said that the greatest shame an able-bodied dwarf could bring upon himself was to cower and hide while others fought his battles. Pippin did not want to bring shame on his family – but he did not want to die, either.

"Pippin," said Gandalf gently, giving him a little shake. "You are not a soldier, my lad. That is not your duty, and no one expects it of you. There is no shame in doing what will be most useful, even if it is not the most valiant. Please. Do this for me."

Pippin swallowed, and then nodded, and Gandalf's smile grew a little stronger, and a little sadder.

"Thank you, my dear Pippin. Alas, I won't be sending you out of danger entirely, even if the battle never reaches the inner levels," he said, bitterness leaking into his tone. "I fear some butchered news or ill-meaning prophecy has reached the ears of the steward, though I know not how. I have not seen him, not since yesterday, but I hear that his mutterings are growing violent, and less lucid. He speaks of the end of his line, of the death of his sons, of the doom of his city, and he speaks of them as though they have already come to pass. Once, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, was a strong man. Now, I fear, he has been crippled by his own pride and stubbornness. You take care if you see him, Pippin. I know not what he will do."

Pippin felt rather like a glass of ice-cold water had been tipped down the back of his neck. "You think he might hurt Faramir?"

"I do not know," said Gandalf gravely, squeezing Pippin's shoulder. "Denethor loves his sons, and though he may not accept it he does love Faramir, but madness can drive a man far beyond the reach of love. But I give you two orders. The first is the lesser – protect Faramir. Keep him safe, and maintain the order of the healers. But you are to abandon this quest if it interferes with the second: take care of yourself. Do not put yourself in any more danger than you must, Peregrin Took."

Eyes drifting towards the army, Pippin crossed his fingers in his pocket and nodded. "I'll try, Gandalf."

A great cry rose among the men nearby and Gandalf leapt to his feet, twisting Pippin around behind him. Around them, the men raised their shields and cringed away, and Pippin heard a hailing chorus of metal hitting metal, and the sickening thud of flesh hitting stone, and then a missile landed an inch from his toes, rocking back and forth on the ground.

And then Pippin saw what it was, and he whimpered, clamping a hand over his mouth.

It was a helmet – but not an empty helmet. Inside it was the head of a man, his face still twisted in horror, his eyes as clouded as the grey sky above them.

"Go!" barked Gandalf, pushing Pippin back towards the inner city. "You have lingered here too long, Peregrin Took! Back to the Houses of Healing, hurry now!"

His eyes still fixed on the head, Pippin nodded and did as he was told, hurrying back along the wall and flying down the stairs to the street below. He could hear more heads falling, more soldiers crying out, but he kept running, making his way up through the city.

He was halfway up the second level when there came a thundering crash, and the ground tremored beneath his feet, throwing him off balance. He stumbled and looked back, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of one of the guard towers crumbling – Mordor were not just flinging heads anymore.

As he looked over his shoulder, he saw a great boulder hurtling towards the wall to the second level and he gasped, tripping over his own feet in an attempt to run faster. He stumbled, and then the boulder hit, and the ground beneath him shuddered and he fell. Winded, Pippin scrambled back up onto his feet, and kept running.

He kept running.

The city was eerily empty, but he passed a few frantic women and children scurrying deeper into the upper levels in a desperate search for shelter, and a handful of soldiers charging in the other direction, towards the lower levels. Towards the battle.

Pippin kept running.

Finally, with lungs fit to burst, he reached the sixth level and tore through the gardens into the Houses of Healing. There, he stopped running, and started to walk instead – as much to get his breath back as to avoid the wrath of the healers. He was still wheezing when he burst into Faramir's room, and when he did the soldier sitting by the bed leapt to her feet.

"Pippin," Rion breathed. "It has begun."

"Yes," he said, breathing heavily. "Gandalf, Gandalf told me to guard Faramir."

Rion nodded, and picked up a helmet from the bedside table. It was identical to the one worn by the head that had landed at Pippin's feet, and fear rose fresh within him as Rion put it on.

"You're going out to fight?" he asked. "I thought you were still healing?"

"Yes, I am going out to fight," said Rion, bowing low and giving Pippin a wry smile. "My wounds may slow me a little, but I can handle a bow as good as any, and my sword if I must. This is my home, and I must defend her. But I must thank you, Peregrin Took, from the bottom of my heart."

Thoroughly baffled, Pippin shook his head. "Thank me? Why?"

Rion glanced at Faramir, her smile softening into a look that Pippin knew well. It was the sort of reverence that Kíli would send Fíli's way, if he thought no one was looking. The way that Vinca looked at Pearl when she was onstage dancing. The way that Merry looked at Pippin. "If no one came to relieve me, I would be torn between my duty to my city, and my duty to my lord – but with you here, I know that Faramir is in good hands." She paused, and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, they stared straight at Pippin. "Take care of him for me?"

"I will," swore Pippin, patting the hilt of the small sword that Galadriel had given him. "I won't fail. But be careful."

Rion bowed again, her hand over her heart in a manner that looked almost elvish. "And you, my friend."

And then she was gone.

And Pippin was alone again, with a young lord he did not know.

For a while, he simply stood there a little awkwardly, unsure of exactly what to do, but then he sighed, and sat down on the chair beside Faramir.

"It's all getting a bit real here," he sighed, patting the young man's arm. "I never thought I'd ever be in a place like this – trapped in a strange city while Mordor besieges it… It sounds like one of Balin's old stories, like the tales of the elder days. The elves think that we don't know all that old history, dwarves and hobbits and dwobbits. They think we don't care, but that's not true." Pippin paused a moment, and then nodded his head slightly. "Well, I mean, it is for hobbits – hobbits don't care about any history that isn't family trees or the tale of pipe weed, but dwarves – dwarves remember everything. They learn their own histories by heart, and they keep the histories of the world close at hand. We learnt about the old wars in school – about Isildur and Elendil, and Gil-Galad and the Last Alliance. And in all of those stories, all of them, it seemed hopeless. As hopeless as this – more hopeless than this! But they came out in the end. With any luck, so will we…"

Faramir stirred in his sleep, and Pippin took it as an invitation to continue his monologue. He rambled on and on, filling the eerie quiet with his fears and his hopes, and describing half a dozen ways that things could be worse.

He had thought that the clamour of battle would be inescapable, but the great outer wall had to be half a mile away at least, and all he heard were distant echoes, and the constant drone unintelligible noise. A faraway roar, a roar whose voices and words were lost to space and distance. A roar that never stopped – a roar that he was sure would soon swallow them whole.

Pippin tried to steer his mind away with stories and tales of merrier times, and he was halfway through telling the unconscious Faramir exactly how Ori had taken down Smaug when he heard something else – something nearer.

They were footsteps, loud, booted, and hurried, and he barely had time to leap to his feet before the door burst open, and six fully armed guards strode in.

Before Pippin could say as much as 'Hello,' Denethor followed them inside, and horror ran down the hobbit's spine.

A far cry even from the grieving lord that he had met in the king's hall, Denethor now looked like a man possessed – his shoulders were hunched, and his hair dishevelled, and there was spittle at the edge of his mouth. He was breathing very heavily, almost twitching on every exhale, but none of that compared to his eyes.

They bore a look that Pippin had never seen before, but even so it was a look that he could not mistake. It was a fire, strange and frightening and fickle and fierce.

It was madness.

 _How?_ Pippin thought, even as dismay and fear rose within him. _How could a man fall so far so fast?_ But then he gave his head a little shake – he had to focus. Gandalf said that Denethor might hurt Faramir, and upon a second glance, Pippin noticed that the soldier nearest the door was carrying a stretcher.

 _How on earth did you miss that the first time, Pip?_ scoffed a voice much like Merry's in his mind, but he shushed it.

"Good afternoon, my lord," he said slowly, giving a little bow. "Can I help you?"

Denethor made an odd noise in his throat, a strange mingling of a choke and a growl. "The halfling. Begone from my sight! Your riddles were what ripped my sons from me!"

"No one's ripped your sons from you, and I've never given any riddle," protested Pippin, doing his best to keep his voice calm and measured. He thought of Nelly, and drew his shoulders back a little, though he kept his face as meek as he was able to make it. "I'm just here to help."

"Lies!" Denethor hissed, taking a lurching step forward. Even as fear began to creep up his spine, Pippin stepped in before the end of Faramir's bed. The lord's eyes flashed. "I know what halflings are – I know they are treacherous and wretched and rotten to the core – you offer no help! Begone, I command you! Do not stand between me and my son."

Pippin flinched, and he knew that his fear would be showing on his face by now. He shook his head. "I won't, as long as you tell me what that stretcher is for. The healers said that Faramir shouldn't be moved."

Denethor's expression crumpled as though Pippin had taken a sledgehammer to it, but even through the anguished grief that wrought its way onto the man's face, the mad fire remained strong in his eyes.

"There is nothing more the healers can do to save Faramir," said Denethor softly, the change in his tone as sudden as a sword stroke. "He is dead. My sons are spent – I have seen it. But there will be no tomb for Faramir, no tomb for Denethor. We shall burn, as the heathen kings of old, and set a fire in our flesh!"

"You – you mean to burn him?" choked Pippin, his horror wrapping tight around his throat.

Denethor's face hardened again, and he snarled. "We shall burn together, and thus we shall conquer Mordor, and Gandalf, and the Dúnedain – we shall cheat them all! They will not have us. Mordor will not slay us, and we shall not bow to that Ranger from the North! You will not stop us."

"But he's not dead!" cried Pippin, shaking his head to try and hide his trembling. "He's not dead!" He looked frantically towards the guards, praying that one of them would do something, say something, but they stood silent and motionless as statues. Would they really burn Faramir alive at the whim of a man who was clearly mad?

"My sons are both dead," said Denethor, his voice breaking. "Boromir is dead, is long dead and will never know, will never know that Faramir rode alone, and Faramir – Faramir will burn with me, and be with me forever-"

"They're not dead! He's breathing, you can see he is breathing!" Pippin's voice grew more desperate, more incredulous as he pointed at the slumbering man, but the guards simply stared at him, emotionless beneath their helmets.

Denethor gave a strangled roar, and cast out his arms, jabbing his fist towards Pippin. "You – you will not separate me from my son! Begone, cur! Guards, take Faramir from this wretched place, now!"

The guards moved forward fluidly towards Faramir's bed, and Pippin held out his hands. "Don't – please, don't – listen to me, Faramir is not dead, you cannot burn him!"

One of the guards hesitated, but Denethor growled and he re-joined the others, carrying the stretcher towards the right side of Faramir's bed.

Unbidden, an image of Boromir sprang to Pippin's mind, an image of the woods, and the arrows, and the great man on his knees.

This was it.

This was his chance to repay his friend. To repay his debt.

He drew his sword.

The guards all froze, and the one who had hesitated looked to Denethor.

His voice trembling, Pippin drew their eyes back to him. "Faramir is not dead, and neither is Boromir – but Boromir very nearly _did_ die, saving us – my kinsman and me. I cannot let you burn his brother. Not when there's still hope that he will wake up, not when there's still breath in his body."

"Hope?" snarled Denethor. "Hope? You fool – there is no such thing as hope!" He turned to the guards and spoke in a voice as cold as Caradhras. "Get that filth out of here, if you have not the guts to slay him! We are running out of time – the fire must be lit before the city falls, and oh, it will fall. All the 'hope' you have now lies in a swift death."

Two of the men stepped forward towards Pippin, one reaching out a hand for his collar, but Pippin ducked easily, and then jumped back onto the end of Faramir's bed.

"Get back!" he warned but even he could hear the fear in his voice. "Get away!"

"Come, little one," said the guard who had reached for him. "It does not have to end like this."

"No, it doesn't," Pippin agreed. "If you would kindly see sense and put down your weapons-"

"Put down the sword," said the guard, his voice hardening a little. "You are outnumbered. We will kill you."

Pippin's eyes flickered over the room, over the armed soldiers and their swords, over Denethor and his blazing eyes. The man was right. He could not win against six trained guards over twice his size. He was no Fíli.

He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes, felt them survive his desperate attempts to blink them away, and he sniffed. Then, he took a deep breath. "I know," he said, his voice wavering. "But Boromir tried to protect me. And I have to try, too."

"Please, little one," said another soldier – this was the one who had hesitated. "We do not wish to harm you."

Denethor growled, stepping forward again. "Enough talk! Kill him, now!"

His heart pounding a desperate drum beat against his ribs, Pippin stared at the soldier who had hesitated. "You are not just going to _harm_ me. You're going to _kill_ me, and then you will murder Faramir. All because you won't think for yourselves or for your city – you'll just listen to the whim of a madman."

With a bellow, Denethor lurched forward, but Pippin was prepared for it, and he spun his sword around in his hands to grab it by the blade, bringing the hilt down hard on the lord's head. Denethor froze with a gasp, and Pippin hit him again with a loud thunk, sending him down to his knees. Already the guards were moving, surging towards him, but time seemed to slow for Pippin as he raised his sword like a golf club, and brought down one last strike to the side of Denethor's head.

Knocked him out cold.

And as Denethor fell, the foremost guard brought his sword down in a strike so fast that the young hobbit would never have had a chance of escape – at least, he would have had no chance if he had lived all his life in the Shire.

But Pippin was a dwobbit of Erebor, and defensive manoeuvres had been drilled so deeply into his mind that they were now pure instinct. He threw himself back down on the bed, feeling the rush of the air as the blade swung over his head instead of through his waist, and he gasped, scrambling backwards up the bed towards Faramir.

"Wait!" he begged, dropping his sword into his lap and holding out his hands as his back pressed against the headboard. "Wait, please, I'm just trying to help, please!"

"Help?" demanded the soldier who had struck out at him. His eyes were like a pool of dark blue ink, and his lips were drawn back in a scowl. "You murder our lord and call it help? I will have your head!"

He moved forward, but another guard grabbed his shoulder. "Wait, Amrod – he is too close to Faramir!"

"Please! Please, don't hurt me, I – I'm just trying to protect Faramir!" cried Pippin. "I didn't mean to kill anybody, but I couldn't let you burn him – he's still alive, his _father_ meant to kill him!"

"What would you know of it that our healers could not?" demanded Amrod, turning to the guard holding his shoulder. "Captain Daeron, let me take his tongue first, if he is to add lies to his treason!"

"No!" cried a third guard, the one who had hesitated before, stepping towards Amrod. "Do not harm him – I fear he has seen more into the mind of our lord than we have."

Amrod's eyes bulged with incredulous fury as he turned to his comrade. "What?! That is orc dung, Beregond! Lord Denethor is the wisest man in the kingdom, and he is never without purpose. And this rat murdered him! Our law demands his life!"

"Lord Denethor is not dead," said a fourth guard, glancing up from where he crouched by the motionless man. "His heartbeat is strong – I am sure that soon he will stir."

"Attempted murder, then," spat Amrod. "The penalty is the same."

He turned towards Daeron, and Beregond did the same, both men staring intently at their captain. After a long moment, Daeron inclined his head. "By the letter of the law, the penalty is the same."

Amrod smirked, his eyes still smouldering with fury, and Beregond opened his mouth, but Pippin's terror was too great to be contained, and it tumbled out of him in the only threat he could imagine the men taking seriously.

"Boromir is coming!" he cried. "Boromir is coming, and if you kill me, he won't be happy! And neither, neither will Gandalf! If Gandalf finds out you've killed me you will burn too!"

Amrod's face blazed red, as though flames were biting it already. "You dare threaten us in our own halls?" he roared, storming towards Pippin and raising his sword. "Move! Get away from Lord Faramir now, and I will give you the mercy of a swift end!"

"No!" Pippin's protest came out as more of a whimper, but as it did Faramir stirred, his brows twitching down towards a frown as his face tilted towards Pippin. The guards drew hitched gasps of shock, and Daeron's eyes widened.

"Faramir lives…" he breathed, his eyes glued to the young lord. He hesitated, his sword lowering a little, and then he sighed. "Perhaps the Lord Denethor is mistaken. But we have orders, and we are men of Gondor – men of honour. And the law must be obeyed." He stepped past Amrod and raised his sword once more and stepped forward, so that the blade's tip hovered only a handspan away from Pippin's chest. "Come, little one. Do not make this more difficult than it needs to be."

This was it.

They were going to kill him.

This was how Pippin was going to die – alone and afraid, executed for trying to save the brother of his friend. The look on Daeron's face was clear – there would be no escape. Not even a trial.

The terror that coiled around him was so strong that he could not breathe, and his whole body trembled fiercely, and he could feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

His gaze fell upon the sword tip, and as it did, a memory appeared in his mind, as clear as though it were happening before his very eyes.

 _Curled up in the corner of the empty training arena, Pippin ran his sleeve across his nose. It was the third time he had failed his swordsmanship trial, the third, and he was the only one in his class that had even had to try three times. He had failed, miserably, and what was worse, his whole family had been there to see it. Merry had been insufferable afterwards, hovering around and constantly telling him that it was alright, that he had not done too terribly, that he had almost passed, but it just made Pippin want to scream._

 _And to be alone._

 _No one would look for him here. It was dark and it was supposed to be locked up, and it was the last place anyone would expect him to be._

 _The door creaked open._

 _The last place that anyone would expect him to be, except, perhaps, Fíli._

 _"There you are," the dwarf murmured, closing the door behind him and striding over to Pippin's corner as the young hobbit tried frantically to wipe away his tears. "Your mama's almost as worried as Merry is."_

 _"Aye, because I can't take care of myself!" sobbed Pippin angrily, holding his knees against his chest as Fíli sat down beside him._

 _"Ah, now that's not true is it?" said Fíli quietly, holding out a handkerchief._

 _"I failed. You saw! You saw everything! I completely failed, I'm the worst swordsman ever! Even Pearl didn't need three tries and me? I'm – I'm useless!"_

 _"You are not useless, and you are not the worst swordsman ever," said Fíli firmly. "You're not even twelve years old, Pippin, and this is just your first trial."_

 _Pippin scowled. "My third first trial."_

 _Fíli paused, and then he reached over, scooping Pippin up off the floor and bringing him into his lap. Pippin squirmed and protested, but Fíli held him tightly, and after a moment Pippin gave up with a sob. All his humiliation and sorrow burst out in a storm of tears and sobs, and Fíli shushed him gently, rocking him back and forth. Pippin cried and cried until his whole body felt empty and he could not cry any longer, and it was only then that Fíli spoke._

 _"Do you know why it was that you failed?" he asked. Pippin shook his head pressing his face into Fíli's shoulder. Gently, Fíli took Pippin's chin and forced him to meet his eyes. "It's because you didn't protect yourself. You were too busy trying to jump through the examiner's hoops and strike your target that you forgot to protect yourself. That is always your priority. Always. If anything ever happened to you, it would shatter this family, it would shatter me, and that is what you must remember when you fight. Your life is so important, Pippin. Protect it."_

With a cry of pure desperation, Pippin thrust the man's sword away with his own, tumbling off the bed in the same movement. He hit the floor with a bang and rolled away, clambering to his feet and raising his own sword.

"Don't – don't come any closer!" he yelled, and though his voice trembled, his hand did not.

The guards continued to advance, but then Beregond growled and shook his head, throwing himself in front of Pippin and then turning his back to him, lifting his sword towards his fellow guards.

"Wait, Daeron, please! This is wrong, this is so very wrong. To follow our orders now is to help a man burn himself and his son alive – to burn _Faramir,_ one of the best captains we have! If we follow our orders, we will burn the hope of our people alongside their lords. We cannot do this, and we cannot punish this boy for telling the truth we should have seen with our own eyes."

"Orders are orders," said Amrod, his voice hard. "And this _rat_ just struck our lord, tried to _kill_ our lord! This is treason, Beregond, and you know the consequences. Have you no honour?"

"The orders we were given are madness," said Beregond, leaning deeper into a fighting stance as Amrod stepped closer. "This is what is right – for the city, for our people, and for the wellbeing of both our lords – Denethor is not in his right mind, and this halfling may well have saved him, as well as his son."

"It is not our place to decide what is right!" snapped Amrod. "That is not the duty of the soldier! We serve, and we follow orders – how would we know better than our lord?"

"I do not wish to fight you, Amrod, but if you attempt to harm this halfling I will do all in my power to stop you, I swear it!" said Beregond, and Amrod surged forged. His sword was met mid-stroke by Beregond's, and a great, angry cry rang through the hall.

"Wait!" bellowed Daeron. "Amrod, Beregond, lower your blades. Now!"

"I-"

"Dammit, Amrod, if you are so devoted to orders then listen to mine, I am your captain. Lower your blades, now," Daeron growled. Slowly, the two men obeyed, bringing their blades down in an eerie unison. Daeron paused, staring intently at Pippin. "If the city has no lord, the city will fall."

"If the city's lord declares that the city will fall, he will fell it himself," replied Beregond, shaking his head a little. "Lord Imrahil and Mithrandir are acting as great lords indeed. We should be out there fighting with them, not holed up in here trying to slaughter this boy! Captain Daeron, you know I am right in this."

Daeron did not look at Beregond. Instead, his eyes remained fixed on Pippin. "Tell me, halfling," he said. "How came you to be alone in Faramir's room as battle raged outside?"

"Gandalf told me to watch over him," said Pippin, keeping his sword steady. "When, when I got here Rion was watching, but when I told her what Gandalf said she left to join the battle."

Daeron's eyebrows disappeared below his helmet. "Rion? He is loyal indeed, especially to Lord Faramir. I know of no truer a soldier – if he showed trust in you, then it is likely he had good reason to think you were not any enemy."

"I'm not an enemy!" said Pippin, his exasperation leaking into his tone, despite his best efforts. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

Amrod scoffed furiously. "He _struck down_ the steward of the city! To whom do we owe our duty if not our lord?"

"How old is your son, Amrod?" said Beregond softly. "Fourteen summers? Fifteen? This halfling does not seem to be much older than Arron, to me. Would you see your son slaughtered for this?"

Amrod's eyes narrowed. "My son would not do anything to warrant it."

Beregond shook his head sadly. "Has the halfling? Yes, he struck down lord Denethor, but in doing so he may well have saved his life! He certainly saved Faramir's. Look at him, Amrod. Do you truly think he deserves to die?"

Pippin shivered as Amrod stared at him, but to his surprise, the man's furious face slackened into worry and grief.

"I do not," he said, looking to the Captain. "But does it not make us traitors, if we do not fulfil our orders, our duties – our laws?"

Daeron stroked his chin, nodding his head slowly. "It would – but I don't recall any laws being broken. I do not remember Master Halfling striking the Steward. As I recall, Lord Denethor was in quite a state – ranting and raving, quite overexcited. I remember that we all feared him slipping towards madness, for his words made little sense and seemed beyond desperation, but before anyone could console him, he fell and hit his head on the bedpost. Naturally, we took him to a secure healing room and restrained him there – so he could not harm himself, of course. That is how I remember it."

"It is what I remember," said Beregond at once, and to the utter astonishment of Pippin, the other three guards all murmured in quiet agreement. Only Amrod said nothing, his lips pursed and his eyes on Pippin.

"Amrod?" pressed Daeron. "What do you recall?"

"No one can ever know of this," said Amrod fiercely. "Of their lord's state of mind, our people have a right to know, should we come out of this alive, but none can know what the halfling did. What we have done. For the halfling's sake, and for yours, Beregond. No one can ever know – if word breaks of this we will be stripped of all duty and banished, and you'll be slain beside the halfling for turning a sword on your own people."

"No one ever will know," insisted Daeron, looking slowly around the room and meeting the eyes of every guard. Then, he looked at Pippin. "Not unless someone 'recalls' something other than what we all agree we saw."

"I won't tell!" swore Pippin, disbelief sending a shiver of unease up his spine. This was too easy – was his life truly to be won back with a promise?

"Very well," Amrod sighed heavily. "What order, Captain Daeron? What now?"

"We will take Lord Denethor to a secure room, and if we can find something to sedate and restrain him, until this madness has passed. Beregond, you will remain here with Faramir and the halfling, if he consents to continuing his duty as guard?"

"I do," said Pippin, lowering his sword and raising his chin. "I came here to protect Faramir and I'm not about to stop now. But my name isn't halfling – it is Peregrin Took, son of Lord Paladin of Hobbiton and of Erebor." Then, as an afterthought, he added, "Though you can call me Pippin, if you like. Most people do."

"Very well," said Daeron, bowing slightly. "Master Took and Beregond shall remain here. When Lord Denethor is secure, I bid Amrod and Hirluin to guard his door from any who might cause him harm – including himself. The rest of us shall join the battle – our city needs us."

A murmur of assent ran around the room, and then the guards moved as effortlessly as a well-oiled machine. It seemed less than a moment before Denethor was gone, and the other guards were gone, and Pippin was left alone with Beregond and Faramir.

And in the absence of the men, the far-off, rumbling roar of battle seemed to grow louder.

It filled the awkward silence between Pippin and Beregond, and the more that he listened, the louder it seemed to become.

Trying desperately to ignore it, Pippin walked back to Faramir's side, adjusting the sheets where he had scrambled up the bed and fluffing up the pillow a little, before hoisting himself back up onto his chair, but he could still hear it. It never stopped.

"They must have been fighting for hours now," Pippin murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "Surely it must be over soon…"

Beregond gave him a pitying smile. "If only, Master Took. Battle does not end in a matter of minutes the way it does in a fairy-tale. Besides – you speak of Boromir coming, of Rohan. For them to be of any help, we must hold out until they get here, and that may yet be days."

"Days?" Pippin breathed, his eyes widening as horror swelled around him. "Can the city really hold on for days?"

"I do not know," murmured Beregond, looking away. "If I were to make my very last wager, I would bet that we hold the city for a day or two. I would bet that we would fight till the very bitter end."

Pippin swallowed. "But you would bet that the city would fall?"

Beregond gave a sad smile and did not answer. Instead, he said, "The outer wall is strong. Very strong. If we are lucky, it will be a day or so before you have to use that sword, Master Took. That said, you have no need of it now. I will not harm you."

With a start, Pippin realised that he was still holding his sword. He felt himself go a little pink and ducked his gaze, quickly sliding the blade into its sheath. "Sorry." He paused, and then glanced back at the guard. "Is it true, what Amrod said? Would you really be executed if anyone found out that you had helped me?"

"Yes," said the man softly. "It goes against the most sacred of our laws to raise your sword against your brothers in arms, and any accomplice to an attack on the Steward would be punished severely."

"Then why did you help me?"

The man paused for a long moment, staring at Faramir. "Lord Faramir is the best man I have ever had the good fortune to meet. He cares more deeply for this country and its people even than Boromir, if that is possible. I could not follow any order that would harm him, much less kill him. I – I did not really believe that Denethor would… That any father could… And then there was you. You're not more than a child, are you?"

"I'll be of age in six years," Pippin protested uneasily.

Beregond's eyes grew even sadder. "No more than a child. And you would lay down your life for a man you had never shared so much as a word with, for the sake of what was right, and for your love of his brother. If I had not done something, and you had been slain and Faramir burnt, I would not survive this night either. If the orcs did not take me, then I would've thrown myself on my own blade."

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, Pippin dashed the tears from his eyes and jumped down from the chair, bowing low in dwarven fashion.

"Thank you," he said. "I… thank you."

Beregond bowed back.

They did not speak much that night. Pippin dozed, on and off, and Faramir made some soft murmurings of dream speech, but he did not wake and the sounds of the battle did not slow. Every time Pippin woke, it was to see Beregond pacing, or staring out into the corridor, or listening intently by the window. At midnight, the man left to seek news, and to Pippin's delight, he returned with two small, hot pies. The word he brought with him was less welcome.

"A good number of orcs have swarmed the first level of the city already, thanks to their cursed ladders and towers – hundreds of them, no doubt. The streets are full of corpses, many of ours but more of theirs. They are yet to breach the Great Gates, and most of the ladders have been cast down. The towers are burning."

All through the night, the fighting raged on.

And the Great Gates fell at dawn.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter. Please let me know what you thought, I'm not too sure how I feel about it, to be honest, and I really appreciate the feedback.**

 **Until next time, take care.**


	89. Chapter 89:The Hobbit of Pelennor Fields

**Hey there! Sorry for missing last week, but I'm back now. Thank you for the lovely responses to the last chapter! As ever, please forgive the inevitable mistakes in this one.**

 **Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Hobbit of Pelennor Fields**

When at last the Rohirrim reached the Pelennor Fields and stared down at the carnage below, a thrill of horror shot through Merry. The land before Minas Tirith was flooded with orcs and trolls and men, an army larger than he had even dreaded to imagine – and they were already in the city. He could see the dark line of the orcs flooding in where the gate must be, like a row of fire-ants streaming into their nest, and large, orange flames danced around the dark plumes of smoke that were rising from the city.

"We're too late," he breathed, tightening his grip around Denahi. "Pippin – Pippin's in there!"

"We are not too late," said Éomer, and Merry glanced up at him. Sitting astride his great horse, the young lord of Rohan was almost a dwarf's height away from Merry, but he met the hobbit's eyes all the same. "There are seven levels in Minas Tirith, and seven great walls divide them. It is ill that the lower levels have fallen, but it is not cause to give up hope. Pippin may yet be alive."

Taking a deep breath, Merry nodded. Already, the army before them was moving, turning, rallying to face the threat of the riders, and Théoden was pulling away from the company, galloping up and down the length of his army.

"You can still turn back," said Éomer quietly, his eyes rising to the army before them. "No one will think lesser of you."

"I will," Merry replied, and he nodded slowly. "It's all I can do to help my friends. My family. I have to try."

Éomer sighed, and his voice was heavy as a dwarven funeral bell. "Very well. I cannot promise to keep you safe."

Merry gave a small smile. "I wouldn't ask you too."

 _Perched on the edge of the kitchen counter with a honey-glazed apple in hand, Merry swung his feet back and forth, carefully avoiding Dwalin's eye. The dwarf was standing opposite him, arms folded over his chest, and staring at him, just waiting. And waiting. And waiting._

 _Merry's stomach was twisted up so much that he could not bring himself to even nibble on the apple, and it hung limp from his hand. Still, Dwalin said nothing, and when Merry risked a glance up it was to find the dwarf still staring._

 _Still silent._

 _Finally, Merry could not take it any longer, and he took a deep breath. "Are you going to tell my mama?"_

 _Dwalin did not move, other than to utter a single word. "Yep."_

 _Merry sighed. "Do… do you have to?"_

 _Dwalin laughed. "Yep. Come now, if I don't tell her, someone else will, and then I'll get an earache. Are you going to tell me what happened?"_

 _Merry narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. "Is that why you gave me the apple? To get me to tell you the truth?"_

 _Dwalin snorted. "What? No. The apple's a reward. I saw the bruise on that lad's face – I've been trying to get you to land a proper blow like that for months."_

 _"I-" Merry blinked, shaking his head slightly. "I'm being rewarded for fighting?"_

 _"No, no, you're being rewarded for the_ hit," _said Dwalin, as though there was an obvious distinction. "It was a good strike, technically speaking, and I'm proud. But you shouldn't've been fighting at school, so what was so important that it couldn't wait until the arena?"_

 _Merry bit down on his lip, and glanced back down at his toes. "I… It doesn't matter."_

 _"Aye?" Dwalin raised his eyebrows. "Come, little one, we both know that's not true. Tell me, what did he say? Merry?"_

 _Merry pursed his lips and wrapped his arm around his stomach. He gave the honeyed apple a sniff, and then sighed again. "He… he was making fun of Vinca for mixing up the battles in the War of Orcs and Dwarves, but he wasn't getting the dates right, and when I pointed that out everyone laughed. He got mad, and he said we wouldn't know anything because hobbits were too pathetic to get involved in wars. He said our people were useless cowards, and that if we even did get in a battle, we'd be even more useless and die straight away."_

 _Dwalin's eyebrows lowered into a scowl, and his arms unfolded. "He said what? What did you say that little orc's name was?"_

 _"It doesn't matter," said Merry, but Dwalin stepped forward._

 _"It does matter. No one, and I mean no one is going to bully one of our hobbits – not under any circumstances. Who was it?"_

 _"Nefi, son of Nefir," admitted Merry. "Are, are you going to do something bad to him?"_

 _"Oh aye, I am," said Dwalin darkly. "I'm going to tell his mother."_

 _The corner of Merry's mouth twitched up towards a smile, and he glanced down at his toes. "Dwalin… how many battles have you been in?"_

 _Dwalin's scowl slipped away, but his eyes grew heavy and sad and he sighed. "More than my fair share, lad. More than my fair share."_

 _"How… how'd you get out of them all alive?"_

 _"Luck," said Dwalin heavily. "Luck, and sheer stubbornness."_

 _"But… but… there has to be something else," pressed Merry, biting down on his lip. "Just, just in case I end up in one."_

 _"You won't ever end up in a battle," Dwalin said quietly, leaning forward and squeezing Merry's shoulder. "Never – not a real one. A few skirmishes might hit you here and there, and you might find yourself facing an orc pack or two while travelling, but you won't ever have to go to war, Merry, I promise you that. War is no place for a hobbit."_

 _Merry swallowed. "But Bilbo found himself in a battle – and, and don't you say it's shameful to run from a fight?"_

 _"Bilbo nearly died," said Dwalin sombrely, squeezing Merry's shoulder tighter. "The elves didn't think they could save him, Merry. It was a miracle that he even survived – the fact that he doesn't suffer from it today is beyond that…" Dwalin closed his eyes for a moment, and he shook his head, but then he opened them again, and his voice softened. "No, lad, we will never let battle find you. You have the sons of Durin to protect you, and all our kindred. And there is no shame in leaving fighting to the soldiers, when there are soldiers there to fight."_

 _"Are you sure?" Merry asked hesitantly. "Because you're_ always _telling Nori how he should be ashamed about running away from fights."_

 _Dwalin smirked slightly. "Aye, well, that's because it's Nori. And because Nori picks fights – now if you surprise me and start a war_ yourself _, I expect you to fight in it. But with the exception of that, you will never have to go to battle."_

 _Merry took a deep breath, and glanced up at Dwalin. "But, but what if I stumble into one by mistake?"_

 _"You won't," swore Dwalin, but then he gave a wry smile and sighed, crossing his arms again. "But, if it makes you feel better, remember this – if you ever do end up in a battle, watch your back. You're no good to anyone dead. No matter what, you watch your back. Now, dwarves fight as a team, always, and that's also important. We watch each other's backs, and keep each other alive, but while you keep one eye on your friends, you make sure that your other eye is_ always _on your own back. Understand?"_

 _Merry nodded sombrely. "Watch your back, watch your friends."_

 _"Second, always keep your focus. No matter what you see, what you feel, what you hear, you keep your focus. Being distracted will get you killed, every time, and so will getting cocky. Cocky will always get you killed."_

 _"Keep your focus, don't get cocky," chorused Merry, and Dwalin nodded slightly._

 _"Most importantly do_ not _stop fighting. Not when your arms ache from holding your sword and your lungs feel like a bellows. Not even if you see your friends fall – you hold it together. Don't panic – do not let fear seize you. If you do, it will be your death. Unless you're hurt, you do not stop, because as soon as you stop, you won't be able to start again. As soon as you stop moving, you're dead. If you're wounded, find a place to hide, bunker down, but keep your eyes open and aware."_

 _"Watch your back, watch your friends, and don't stop," recited Merry, nodding. "And don't panic or get cocky."_

 _Dwalin's smile grew very sad, and he put his hands back on Merry's shoulders. "Exactly. But like I said, we dwarves know what happens when a hobbit goes into battle, and we won't ever let it happen again. You're our kin now, and we'll keep you safe."_

 _"Thank you," said Merry sheepishly. "And, and you don't think we're useless or cowards?"_

 _"Of course not," said Dwalin, his voice softer than Merry had ever heard it. "This world needs more than warriors."_

 _Merry considered this for a moment, and then smiled, throwing himself off of the bench and into Dwalin's arms. "I'm glad it was you that picked me up, Dwalin," he whispered, and Dwalin chuckled._

 _"Only because you get a stay of execution from your mother," he said, but his arms tightened around Merry all the same. "Don't worry, kid. We'll always look after you."_

There was no one to look after him now, and Merry knew it. Now, it was time to watch his back, and to watch his friends. To fight, and to never stop.

His heart began to beat faster and stronger in his chest, and he took a deep breath, getting ready to harness the adrenalin that was already starting to course through his veins.

Théoden's horse thundered back towards Éomer, and the men shared a nod. Then Théoden turned, and called out in a voice like thunder. "Arise! Arise, riders of Théoden!"

Merry straightened, pulling his sword from his sheath.

"Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered," Théoden roared. "A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now, ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending! Forth Eorlingas!"

The Rohirrim let out a thunderous roar of approval, a battle-cry to shake the ground, and Merry thrust his sword into the air, throwing out his voice to join the call.

His sword glinting like molten silver even beneath the cloud-shrouded darkness of the Pelennor Fields, Théoden bellowed wordlessly at the heavens, and sent his horse thundering towards the army. Their voices booming to join their lord's, the Rohirrim charged after him – and Merry and Denahi were among them.

 _Focus now – focus now and breathe._

A swell of noise clamoured around him and tried to take his breath away – the deafening sound of thousands of hooves pounding against the ground, and thousands of men bellowing calls of war, and tens of thousands of orcs raising their voices in reply. It was the sound of war, and every hobbit instinct in Merry's body wanted to run and to hide.

But whatever his instincts might say, Merry's heart and head were agreed.

"Come on, Denahi," he growled. "Let's show these bastards why they shouldn't've ever messed with the hobbits of Erebor!"

Denahi threw back his head and howled, and then they were flying forward with a speed that Merry could barely have ever imagined. In the span of two heartbeats, they were neck and neck with the horse of Éomer, leading the charge towards the orcs. When he saw them, Rohan's young lord let out a wild laugh.

"Holbytla!" he bellowed, and Merry gave a dark grin in reply.

 _Focus. Breathe._

Merry kept his eyes ahead, watching as the orcs lowered their spears, as they grew close enough to see their rotten teeth as they grimaced and growled, as the moment of impact grew closer, and then he took the deepest breath of his life.

"You ready, boy?" he whispered, and Denahi growled, nodding his head sharply.

Merry nodded back, adjusting his grip with his legs like they had practised, and pulling himself upright. For once, they were riding without Denahi's saddle, to give Merry a chance to sit up and wield his sword, but it meant that the hobbit had to sit further back than either one of them was used to. Denahi stumbled, but regained his footing in a heartbeat, and Merry's raised his sword.

And then, with a roar, Denahi pushed off of the ground into a leap, and they sailed over the spears of the front row of orcs. Time seemed to slow, and Merry brought his sword down through the necks of two orcs before Denahi landed, crushing another orc's skull beneath his great paw. It was a bumpy landing, but Merry and Denahi had been running together for almost all their lives, and Merry barely so much as slipped, even without the saddle. Not now they had their rhythm.

With a roar, Merry lowered his blade, and they shot a straight line through the ranks of the orcs, more than twenty foes falling at once as the hobbit ripped his sword through their legs. Éomer laughed, and let out a whoop as he passed.

"Forget taking care of you, Master Hobbit!" he yelled, even as he hacked the head off a large orc. "I want you to take care of me!"

Merry grinned again, a surge of pride and determination blazing hot in his veins, but he did not let it go to his head.

 _Being cocky will get you killed._

He wheeled Denahi around to where there were more Rohirrim, where they were not so outnumbered, but as he did, he saw a rider was speared down from his horse, and another felled by a sword through his chest that tore through his armour like paper. Merry saw a man take an axe to the face, saw another's throat slit by an orc with eyes like flames –

And he took a deep breath.

 _Don't panic. Do not let the fear seize you – it will mean your death_.

Merry focused, and adjusted his grip on his sword, hacking into the nearest orc with a yell. He let Denahi lead, and they moved as one being in a wordless harmony that even the greatest of the horse lords could not mimic. To all that watched them, they seemed to share thought and mind, and without any visible signal or audible instruction they danced their way through the ranks of the enemy. Neither seemed to surprise the other – the strike of Merry's sword would compliment the snap of Denahi's jaws, and the swipe of the wolf's great front paw would create an opening for the hobbit to take down another foe, but they never collided. Soldiers of both sides found themselves distracted by the eerie symbiosis of the fierce hobbit and the three-legged wolf, and the orcs that let themselves gawk paid with their lives.

Because Merry was distracted by nothing.

Not by the pain that shivered through him when his arm was caught by the edge of a blade, not by the spear that grazed his cheek and would have killed him, if it were not for the quick feet of Denahi. Not by the wounds that were steadily growing more numerous, and more painful, not by the number of times death missed him by an inch.

Not by the slaughter that he saw all around him.

 _If you lose focus, you lose your life._

Time passed, strangely. In the moment, everything seemed to be going so fast, every movement, every choice made in the jump of a heartbeat, but Merry could not tell how many minutes had passed since he flung himself into battle. He could not even tell if they had reached hours – sometimes it felt like he had been fighting forever. Merry had no way to track the sun – it was shrouded by the heavy, dark cloud above them.

But though he did not know how much time had passed, he knew that the battle was shifting. They were moving closer and closer to the city – in fact, they were almost there. No more than forty feet away from them were the gates, and a thrill ran through Merry as he saw them. There were still orcs pouring into the city, but others were streaming back out, charging wildly at the Rohirrim who got to close. A wall of corpses was beginning to form around the entrance, and Merry leant forward.

"Alright, Denahi," he growled. "Let's go and find Pippin!"

Denahi let out a howl that sent several orcs shrieking away, and together the hobbit and the wolf shot forward like an arrow, making straight for the gate –

And a loud horn rang through the air, and they faltered.

"Gimli?" Merry swallowed, a sense of dread creeping up his spine. "Aragorn?"

Denahi howled softly and stamped his feet, shaking his head and turning his back on the gates, and Merry's mouth dropped open.

There was another army joining the battle – an army of Haradrim, if he was not mistaken.

An army of men, and a dozen creatures bigger than houses, a dozen creatures with great towers on their backs, a dozen creatures with tusks as long as Smaug's skeletal talons.

"Oliphaunts," Merry choked, and then he heard Éomer's voice ring out over the clamour of the battle.

"Eorlingas! Reform ranks! Ride, ride!"

Denahi whined, pointing his nose towards Éomer, and then back towards the city. Towards Pippin.

Merry swallowed, fear curling his stomach. "I… I…"

 _"What's_ that?" _Merry gasped, pointing at the strangest picture so far in the new book that Kíli had given him. He knew that the book came all the way from Lake-town, all the way from the other side of the world, but he had never imagined such a creature._

 _"It's an oliphaunt," said Kíli with a smile, shifting Merry in his arms to point at the animal's trunk. "Legends say they're bigger than even the houses of men!"_

 _"Wow," Merry breathed, looking up at Kíli. He reached his hand up to touch his dwarf's cheek. "I missed you, Kíli."_

 _"I missed you too," said Kíli at once, his face crumpling into a sad smile. He nuzzled Merry's nose, and held him closer. "I'm glad to be home."_

The thought of Kíli steeled Merry's heart, and he nodded.

"We're folk of Erebor, Denahi," he breathed. "And we don't flee from a fight." Denahi growled in approval, springing forward at once, and weaving through the battlefield to join the ranks of the Rohirrim.

As they got closer, the fear in Merry's gut twisted tighter. It looked like the oliphaunts were not only being used as steeds, but as weapons – there were great spikes bound to their tusks, and as Merry watched, one of them brought their head crashing down, goring five riders and their horses, and throwing their corpses into the air.

Gasping, Merry cringed backwards, Denahi slowed slightly, whining.

"I – I'm alright," Merry gasped, though he could feel his hands begin to shake. "Just, just let's not die, alright?"

Denahi tossed his head and put on speed, weaving between the Rohirrim and heading straight for one of the oliphaunts. Merry flinched, but then he steeled himself. He trusted Denahi. He trusted Denahi.

He trusted himself.

With great effort, he batted away his fear and sat back up, forcing his mind to focus. They were streaming towards a charging oliphaunt, one with a viciously barbed pole running between its tusks. It was using it to barrel the riders of Rohan out of the way, to mutilate their horses and their corpses even as it rode over them, but Denahi put on speed. Everything inside Merry screeched at him, demanding that he turn around, that he wrench Denahi to a halt, but he swallowed and forced his eyes to stay open.

 _I trust us._

He heard someone yell his name – Éowyn, it sounded like, but he could not be sure – and then Denahi jumped. Time seemed to slow down as the oliphaunt lunged, and Merry saw it coming closer and closer, saw the gap between its trunk and the deathly, spiked pole narrowing, and he winced. They were not going to make it –

And they did not make it.

At least, they did not make the mark that Merry was expecting to hit. Instead, Denahi landed on the oliphaunt's trunk, his claws digging deep into the creature's flesh and dragging out a bellow that shook the earth. Merry's head span with terror, but the three-legged wolf that had always so stubbornly climbed as well as his siblings scrambled up the oliphaunt's back and onto its head without so much as a slip.

"Merry!" yelled Éowyn. "On your left!"

Merry glanced to the left just in time to duck a sword strike from one of the oliphaunt's riders, and he thrust his own sword deep into the man's chest. Red blood flowed down his sword, warm as it soaked Merry's hands, and he choked, pushing the body away.

He had never killed a man before. He had killed orcs, orcs and wargs, but never a man.

He had never wanted to kill a man.

But he had to get over it, and quickly – the other men were advancing, cautious but vicious, and Merry swallowed, but then Denahi turned again, pawing meaningfully at the roaring oliphaunt's eye. Merry glanced at the Haradrim, and then lurched down to one side, hanging onto Denahi with only his legs , and then he plunged his sword into the oliphaunt's eye – right up to its hilt.

The oliphaunt made only a single sound, an almost surprised grunt, and then shuddered, and tipped forward, plummeting face first towards the earth. Wrenching his sword back out, Merry tumbled forward, clinging to Denahi with his left arm as the great beast began to fall. When the ground was but a few feet away, Denahi leapt down, skidding across the dirt and scrambling to regain his footing.

"Yes, Merry!" cried Éowyn, a great grin spreading beneath her helmet as she raised her sword into the air. "For the Holbytla!"

Breathless, Merry offered her a quick grin, and then Denahi bounded forward, eyes locked on the next oliphaunt. Merry steeled himself, and Denahi prepared to jump –

And then something crashed into them, throwing them several feet through the air. They hit the ground with a painful thump, and Merry's head collided painfully with the shield of a fallen soldier. Denahi whimpered, and struggled to his feet, leaving Merry sprawled across the floor beneath him. Stars span before Merry's eyes, and he blinked and shook his head in a desperate attempt to scatter them, but then Denahi gave a wild howl of fear, and a great column of stone crashed down but an inch from the tip of the wolf's tail. Another came down on the other side, and then there were two more, and to his horror, Merry realised that it was not stone at all – they were standing beneath the belly of an oliphaunt.

And the beast was stumbling.

With a desperate gasp, Merry threw himself onto Denahi's back, and they scrambled frantically to get out from beneath the oliphaunt, but each time they tried to escape the beast would kick or stomp, missing Denahi by only a hair's width. Merry whimpered despite himself as he saw the oliphaunt's knees buckle.

"Denahi – Denahi-"

His wolf whipped around, spinning on the spot with a desperate howl, and above them the oliphaunt let out a loud bellow of pain. And its legs gave way, and the great bulk of its body came crashing down –

And Denahi howled, and threw up his back legs with all the strength he had, flinging Merry through the air –

And Merry hit the ground, the skin tearing away from his arms and neck and face as he skidded across the dirt –

And the earth shook –

And then all was still.

Merry pushed himself upright, trying to blink the daze away from his eyes, which slowly focused on a large, grey shape before him. The oliphaunt.

A thrill of cold horror ran down Merry's throat, and he cried out. "Denahi? Denahi!"

A growl answered him, but it was not his wolf that detangled themselves from the rubble before the creature's back. It was a man, bloodied and bruised and fully armed, and the moment his eyes fell on Merry he snarled, spitting out a sentence that the hobbit could not understand. Another man crawled out from the ruins of their tower, and then a third, and then they let out a yell, and a dozen more foot-soldiers swelled towards them from behind the oliphaunt's corpse.

And the first soldier pointed right at Merry, spitting out more words in his own tongue. Their faces contorting in anger, the men charged towards Merry, swords raised and eyes ablaze, and he turned to run, but there was the corpse of another oliphaunt behind him, and he had nowhere to go. He whirled back around, his breathing catching desperately in his throat as he shifted into a fighting stance that he knew would be hopeless. He could not win a fight against fifteen trained soldiers, not on his own.

 _I am a dwobbit of Erebor_ , he thought fiercely, _and I will try all the same._

Baring his teeth, Merry let out his fear and fury with the loudest roar he could conjure. "Du bekar!"

To his great surprise, a voice cried back in reply.

 _"Merry!"_

A horse shot across the ground before him, fast as blinking, and when it had passed, the heads of the first two Haradrim fighters were rocking on the ground besides their feet. With a yell, the rider turned her horse, descending upon the rest of them with a ferocity that sent a thrill down Merry's spine, and he charged after her, taking down two of his would-be killers, and narrowly avoiding the stroke of Éowyn's sword himself.

Soon, the dozen odd Haradrim that had set their sights on Merry were strewn across the floor around them, and Éowyn leant down from the horse, offering her hand to Merry.

"Come, quick-" she began, but as she did an arrow struck the side of her horse and it shrieked, raising up onto its hind legs and throwing Éowyn from its back. Merry leapt backwards, away from the stomping feet, and with wide, white eyes and foam at its mouth, the horse let out another frantic cry, tearing away through the battlefield in a desperate attempt to escape the carnage. Merry did not watch long enough to see if the poor creature made it.

"Are you alright?" he asked Éowyn, but she was already clambering to her feet, nodding grimly.

"So now we both fight on foot," she said, breathless but resolute, and Merry nodded.

Back to back, they faced the orcs and Haradrim that swelled around them, and soon Merry found himself lost again to time. Perhaps it was only a number of minutes that he fought there, only a handful of times that he deflected blows away from Éowyn – or perhaps it was hours, and hundreds. Exhaustion began to creep through every part of Merry, starting in his arms and laying claim to the rest of his body, limb by limb. Everything hurt, and more than anything he wanted to rest. Just for a minute.

 _If you stop, you won't start again. If you stop, you die._

Merry did not stop. He kept his focus.

And then the air was torn apart by a screech so chilling that Merry gasped, doubling over to cover his ears. Terror ripped through him like a rockfall, and at once he knew what it was that he was hearing.

 _Nazgûl._

He could see them circling in the sky, see their Fell Beasts sweeping down to attack the Rohirrim, and every thought that he had was of horror, the only thing he wanted to do was run, but something deep inside him stirred, and Merry forced his hands away from his ears.

 _You panic, you die._

Merry did not want to die.

It felt impossible to keep fighting, but Merry raised his sword anyway, hacking down orc after orc even as his back bowed beneath his fear. He glanced over his shoulder, but to his dismay Éowyn was no longer there, and he could no longer see her through the throng.

And he spent a moment too long looking for her.

A hand snapped forward, struck Merry in the throat, and he choked, staggering backwards. Before he had stumbled so much as two steps, the hand clenched around his throat, and his sword was wrenched from his hand. Slowly, the hand crushed tighter around Merry's neck and lifted him higher, bringing him face to face with a black-eyed orc. Legs kicking feebly beneath him, Merry watched in horror as the orc drew back his blade.

Desperate, he scrabbled to try and gouge the orc's eyes or twist his nose until he let go, but the orc just held him at arm's length, and laughed, its fist closing tighter still around Merry's neck. With a start, Merry dropped his hand down to his waist, grappling in his pocket and trying not to lose consciousness. He had only a second before the orc speared him through, and he knew it, but a second was all it took to grab the small knife from his belt and drive it up through the orc's arm.

The orc screeched and dropped him, and even as he coughed and spluttered, Merry jumped up to stab his little knife into the orc's neck again, and again. Blood gurgled up between the orc's lips, and its eyes began to go dull, and Merry felt a grim satisfaction rise within him.

And then he felt a blow like a great punch strike the side of his waist, and an odd, tingling sensation. It was almost like running into a wall, if that wall gave you a static shock that fizzled on for more than a moment, if that wall hit only the left side of your body. Something was strange – something was wrong, and as the orc finally fell before him, Merry looked down.

And his heart dropped out of his chest, and his knife dropped out of his hand.

The hilt of his own sword was sitting against his flesh, just above his hip bone.

And the blade of his sword was inside him.

Too afraid to scream, Merry whimpered, staggering back, but as he did a heat like dragon-fire shrieked through him and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in quick, frantic little gasps.

He had been stabbed. The orc had stabbed his own sword right through him, he had been stabbed, he –

 _Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic –_

Desperately, Merry dragged himself towards the leg of a nearby oliphaunt, hiding behind its great bulk and looking down at the blade sticking through him. If his trembling hands fluttered around to the back of his waist, he could feel the tip sticking out on the other side, and he keened, squeezing his eyes shut.

 _What do I do, what do I do, what do I do_?

Somewhere above him, the Nazgûl screeched, and terror shuddered through him again, curling his toes and his fingers and bringing a soft cry from his lips.

 _Focus._

With a sob, Merry forced himself to look at the wound, to really look at it, and when he did, something akin to relief trickled through him. The sword might be sticking all the way through him, but it was also very, very close to his skin – in fact, it was less than half an inch away from the edge of his waist. Did that make it a flesh wound? It did not look like it was far enough into his abdomen to have hit any major organs – but then Merry was not a healer.

Was he supposed to take it out? Leave it in? Sit there and cry, and hope that someone would come and save him?

"Meriadoc?!" a voice cried, and Merry glanced up quickly, unable to believe his luck. King Théoden was before him, still astride his horse, and concern was wrought deep into his brow.

"What – what do I do?" Merry gasped, before the king could speak again. He could feel tears, hot and stinging against his cheeks, and Théoden's face crumpled.

"Hold on, Master Hobbit," he said kindly. "We-"

And then there came a great shriek, and Merry watched in horror as one of the Fell Beasts swept down from the sky, seizing Théoden and his horse in its jaw. He screamed his denial, but the beast threw them anyway, and Merry watched in horror as the king was crushed beneath the corpse of his own horse.

The Fell Beast landed, feet away from the king, and began to prowl towards him. Slowly, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world.

"No…" Merry gasped, looking between Théoden and the hilt in his hip. The Nazgûl leant over the king of Rohan, and the Fell Beast spread its wings.

"Feast on his flesh," hissed the Nazgûl, and Merry's heart twisted.

Gathering every ounce of strength he could find, Merry dragged himself to his feet, stumbling towards the winged beast, but before he could get there, a lone soldier leapt before the king.

"I will kill you if you touch him!" Éowyn swore, and the Nazgûl drew further upright.

"Do not come between the Nazgûl and its prey," it said, its voice the sound of evil itself. Merry froze, stooped and bleeding on the battlefield, unable to do anything but watch as the Fell Beast lurched.

Éowyn dodged with a grace that looked effortless, and then with a roar she hewed the Fell Beast's head from its long neck, sending both it and its rider crumpling to the dirt. A ripple of icy cold spread over the fields, bringing Merry down to his knees as the Nazgûl rose, a long, spiked mace bigger than a wolf's head dangling from a chain in his hands.

Help. Merry had to help her – he had to do something – but every time he moved his sword tugged inside him, every time he breathed the pain felt worse. His store of adrenalin was bleeding away, and the pain was growing sharper, and his arms were shaking more and more by the second.

Before him, Éowyn was darting out of reach of the Nazgûl's mace, but the wraith had better aim than his steed, and to Merry's horror each blow landed closer than the last. She could not dodge forever – and she did not.

Her small, wooden shield shattered beneath the strike of the mace, and Éowyn cried out, falling backwards onto her uncle's horse. Merry could see her cradling her arm, see her feet scrambling desperately to get up, but before she could, the Nazgûl's hand was around her throat.

They were close enough for Merry to touch now, close enough for him to tug on the tail of the Nazgûl's cloak, but that would do no good. To his horror, Merry realised that he had no weapon – he had dropped his little knife, there were so helpful swords lying beside him or behind him –

 _What do I_ do?

"Fool," whispered the Nazgûl, and Merry bit back a sob as the wraith drew Éowyn up off of the ground. "No man can kill me. Die now."

 _No._

Clenching his teeth, Merry and seized the hilt of his sword and wrenched it out of his own flesh, ignoring the new pain and the new blood, and thrusting the blade as deep as he could into the Nazgûl's back.

The wraith let out a great screech and thundered down to its knees, and the blade shook like an earthquake, and shattered into a thousand pieces. The force sent Merry crashing back down onto the dirt and knocked the air from his lungs. His sword-arm felt like it had been struck by lightning, almost rivalling the agony in his side, but he only had eyes for the kneeling Nazgûl, and for the soldier standing before it.

Swaying on her feet, Éowyn stood proud and strong regardless. She pulled off her helmet, and her hair shone like gold, and her voice rang out stronger than stone.

"I am no man!"

With one final roar, she thrust her sword deep into the Nazgûl's hood, and it shrieked, the noise sending terror and agony through all who heard it. Even as he cringed, Merry looked for Éowyn. He saw her gasp, and drop the hilt of a broken blade, and then he saw her fall back, and the helm of the Nazgûl crumpled in on itself like a pewter goblet crushed by dwarven fingers.

And then it fell, landing on an empty pile of black robes with a dull thud.

The Nazgûl was gone.

Relief flooded through Merry, a relief so strong that it took his breath away, and he closed his eyes. It was over. It had to be over. The fighting that he could hear was just echoes, it had to be. It could not get any worse than this. It was over, surely, it had to be over. He just wanted to sleep. To sleep for a long, long time.

Below him, he could feel the ground growing warm and wet, and Merry whined softly. He did not have time to faint, or go into shock. Merry did not have time to die.

 _You're no good to anyone dead._

Dragging his eyelids open, Merry struggled out of his elven clock, bundling it against his side and trying to put pressure on the sword wound. The pain seared through him, and nausea rose in his stomach, but he kept going, fumbling with his belt until he came loose. Carefully, he retied it over his cloak and clothes, trying to bind his waist as best he could.

 _I'm no good to anyone dead. And I don't want to die._

He could hear Éowyn nearby, hear her sobbing softly as she spoke to Théoden, but he could not hear her words. They were not for him, in any case. He looked up, towards the rest of the battle, and to his astonishment, he saw that another army had joined them, while he was not looking.

An army that could only be described in one word: ghosts.

"Gimli," Merry whimpered. "You did it…"

As if conjured by his words, Merry suddenly caught sight of another small figure on the battlefield – of the unmistakable silhouette of Gimli, and Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir beside him. Hope kindled in Merry's heart, and he held out his hand towards them, but it hurt too much and he collapsed, limp against the ground.

He wanted to scream, to wail and howl and shriek at the top of his lungs until Gimli came and found him, but the only sound he seemed capable of making was a mewling whimper, and the world before his eyes grew hazy.

Exhausted, Merry let his eyes close. It would just be for a moment, just a moment. He did not want it to be just a moment. He wanted to sleep. To sleep for a long, long time. He whined softly – but no, that was not him. Someone else was whining, frantically, fearfully, whining and nudging at the back of his neck with a wet nose, and licking at his ears.

Merry sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He had to be hallucinating. Denahi was not there. Denahi was crushed beneath the corpse of an oliphaunt. It could not be not Denahi lying down beside him, could not be his wolf's front leg now pressing over his belt, over his wounds. It could not be Denahi howling for help, could not be Denahi that bit down on his ear as consciousness slipped away.

But it was. And Denahi stayed there, bloodied and frightened and desperate, guarding his unconscious little hobbit from anyone who got too close, and howling, and howling, and howling, until Gimli heard him, and sprinted over, and let out a howl of his own.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Battle scenes have never been my favourite to write and I really don't think I do them too much justice - especially with a battle as epic as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Tolkien created so many amazing, kick-ass moments, and I know this doesn't come very close to it, but I'm not altogether disappointed with this chapter. Please do let me know what you thought (don't be afraid to give constructive criticism like 'this didn't work for me', I find it really useful!)**

 **Anyways, until next time, thank you and take care.**


	90. Chapter 90: Aftermaths

**Hey everyone, I hope that you're well! Sorry about the delay with this chapter, I've been rather busy. Thank you so much for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, I hope you enjoy this one and forgive any typos.**

 **Chapter Ninety # Aftermaths #**

Frodo looked between Nelly and Sam, a sense of growing dread curling in his stomach. "What? What happened? Where is Sméagol?"

Nelly dropped her gaze to the ground for a moment, but then she took a deep breath and raised her chin strongly. "I'm sorry, Frodo. He's dead."

"Dead?" Frodo cried, wincing with instant regret as his throat burnt with the effort. A choking cough stole his voice, and at one Sam gave him a water skein. A small part of Frodo never wanted to even see a drop of water again after what happened in the tower, but he drank, and his throat relaxed a little.

 _Of course, it would be water that makes it better, after water tore it apart,_ he thought bitterly, but only for a moment. The weight of what Nelly was saying hit him a second time, and he shivered, looking back at Nelly as grief for Sméagol welled in his chest. "Are, are you sure?"

"Positive," she said softly, reaching out almost hesitantly before taking Frodo's hand. She squeezed it only for a moment, and then quickly returned her hands to her lap. "I'm sorry. I know that you were fond of him."

"I – I-" Frodo shook his head slightly. "What happened? Was it the spider – the orcs?"

Nelly swallowed, and glanced at Sam, who gave a heavy sigh and a small nod. She raised her eyes to meet Frodo's, and he saw that they were sparkling with tears and with pain, which he had almost expected. What he had not expected to see was the guilt in her gaze, and the grim determination with which she spoke.

"No, Frodo. It was me."

It felt like Frodo had been thrust back into the bucket of iced water. He shook his head again, and again, and Sam reached out towards him but Frodo flinched away.

"Why?" he gasped. "Why, why would you do that?"

"I didn't want to," she whispered, staring beseechingly at him. "Truly, Frodo, I – I didn't have a choice."

 _She killed him – she killed your friend,_ the ring crooned _. And soon she will kill you – she will kill you, and take everything wrong you, just as she took it from Sméagol. She butchered him, murdered him –_

"Why?" Frodo choked again, trying to ignore the anger the ring was stirring in his heart. Or was it his own anger? Did he want to scream at Nelly, did _he_ want to strike her, or was that the Ring? "Why!"

"Shh, Frodo," murmured Sam, his eyes flickering warily towards the mouth of the cave. "We don't want to be too loud, don't want to get caught again now."

"Why?"

"Because he tried to kill us," Nelly said, her lower lip shaking. "He led us into that spider's lair on purpose, Frodo, he knew what was inside-"

"Did he? Do, do you know that?" he demanded, his eyes stinging. "Or did you just want to think that? You never liked Smeagol, never!"

Beside him, Bróin shuffled uncomfortably and opened his mouth, but Nelly spoke before he had the chance, her voice small and sad.

"Do you really think I'd kill someone – anyone – because I didn't like them? I didn't have a choice! The orcs were about to take you, and he'd knocked out Sam with a rock and his hands were around my neck."

 _Look how she cries,_ sneered the Ring. _Crocodile tears from a treacherous, backstabbing-_

Nelly pulled the high collar of the orc's tunic down away from her neck, revealing ugly, dark bruises stretching around her throat, and Frodo's stomach flipped over. "He tried to kill me, Frodo, and I, I didn't want to die. I got him off me, I got the upper hand… and I knew if I let him go, he would come back. He would come back and try to kill us again. I didn't know if Sam was knocked out or dead, I didn't know if I had any chance of getting you and Bróin back – he would have killed all of us, and I couldn't let him try again. I couldn't. So I put my sword in his heart. I did what I had to do. I'm sorry."

Frodo swallowed, staring at the marks on his cousin's neck. Dimly, he could hear Bróin protesting that she had no need to apologise, that she had done nothing wrong at all, but he could not believe that.

"You – you could have tied him up, have subdued him, you – you-"

"Frodo," Sam began, but Frodo shook his head, tears biting their way down his cheeks. Nelly was going very pale, cringing away from him with tears of her own, and Frodo sobbed.

"No! No, you killed him! Is that what you're going to do to me, then? If I'm too much of a threat? You're going to put your sword in my heart?"

Bróin's eyes widened and he reached out to grab Nelly's hand. "Frodo!"

But Frodo did not care. "Because all he did, he did because of the Ring! It wasn't his fault, he was trying, he was trying to make up for what he had done! And now the Ring is mine, and when I start to talk like Sméagol, are you going to stab me too?"

Nelly sobbed, shaking her head and brushing away Sam and Bróin's frightened protests. "You don't understand, Frodo. You don't – you're giving him too much credit. Sméagol had choices, and even before he had owned that _thing,_ he chose wrong. He strangled his cousin just to get his hands on the Ring, he used it to spy on his friends and his family – he used it to steal and lie and kill, and yes, it gained influence over him, and I don't doubt all he did to _us_ was because of the Ring, but he wasn't a good person to begin with. If you were hoping you could save him, you never had a chance. I'm not saying he was wholly evil – I don't think he was. I, I know there was good in him. But I don't think it was enough, Frodo. I killed him to defend myself, and to protect you. But if you can look into my eyes now and tell me that you honestly think I would _ever_ try to kill you, then you can take this, and you can do what _you_ think needs to be done with it."

Nelly leant forward and pressed a knife into Frodo's frozen hands. Bróin whimpered, grabbing her arm and looking at Frodo with a look that could only be described as horror, and Sam was rigid as stone against the wall, staring at them as though he was watching the sky collapse down and crush the earth.

And Frodo stared at Nelly.

 _Kill her,_ hissed the Ring. _For her disloyalty, her murder, her –_

"If this is you," she whispered, "if this anger and hate that you feel is _you,_ and you really think I would hurt you, then I can't help anymore. If this is what you truly believe, then do it."

 _Kill her, kill her, kill her!_

And then Frodo realised what it was she was asking him to do.

The knife fell from his fingers, and clattered against the stone, and Frodo's head fell back against the wall of the cave. The rock was ragged and sharp, and bit deep into his aching skull, but he could not bring himself to care. The stone was no more ragged than his throat as he gasped for air, no sharper than the pain in his heart.

"I – Nelly, I, I'm sorry, I – I didn't – I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" His words choked off as his sobs grew stronger and faster, and stronger and faster still until he could no longer speak, or move, or breathe. He could only cry, and when Nelly moved forward and Bróin tried to hold her back he cried harder, dropping his head onto his knees. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, felt Nelly pull him close and plant a kiss on his head, and he sobbed.

"I'm sorry, too," she murmured, squeezing him tightly. "I'm sorry."

Desperately, he grabbed onto her arm, though he did not really feel entitled to do so. He felt another pair of arms wrap over him, and then a third, and he whimpered. Guilt was curdling in his gut so strongly he thought he might be sick – if first he did not drown in sorrow or choke on fear. He felt awful for Sméagol, and for the fate he had met, but worse for implying that Nelly was a murderer, for imagining that she would ever turn on him. And he felt even worse imagining Gollum's hands around Nelly's neck, and thinking of the orcs beating Bróin, remembering the moment that they held him underwater until his legs stopped moving.

Every memory he had hurt, every face he brought to mind made his chest feel tighter. He wept at the thought of Bilbo, and Kíli, and Fíli and Dís – he sobbed at the thought of Thorin and Bofur and Balin, he wailed for Merry and Pippin and Gimli. And, though he felt a weakling for it, he cried for himself, too. He cried for his pain and his fear, and for everything that the world seemed to want him to do.

And his friends held him as he cried, cuddling him close until he was too tired to sob anymore. Finally, with a gasping breath, he managed to muster a single sentence.

"I'm sorry!"

"It's alright, now," said Sam. His voice sounded thick, as though he, too, was crying. "It's alright, Frodo."

"We promised," whispered Nelly, curling tighter around him. "We promised not to let you walk the wrong way. We won't let you fall into the darkness. That is why we are here."

"If, if I hurt you-" Frodo gasped, and she shook her head.

"We won't let that happen either," said Bróin, somewhat more weakly than usual. "Don't worry. If you try, we'll conk you on the head and drag you back home by your earlobes."

They peeled off of him, sitting up slowly, and wiping at their cheeks. Bróin leant forward, knocking Frodo's tears gently away from his face.

"Nelly's right," Sam said gently. "You and Sméagol are not the same. If you want to see where you'll be after years of having the Ring, look at Bilbo. His character was not changed, was it? Not much, anyway. You'll be alright, Frodo. We'll make sure of it."

"Unless of course we all get murdered by orcs first," added Bróin.

"No one's getting murdered by orcs," said Nelly sharply, but it was sorrow that flickered in her eyes as she looked over them. "Unless we don't get those wounds cleaned up. Come, sit back, boys. We'll get you all sorted out." She dabbed at her eyes, and then wiped her nose on her sleeve, motioning for Bróin to sit back.

"Very hygienic," he muttered.

"Shh," she tutted, pushing Bróin back against the wall with a wry smile. "Come now, Sam. The faster we heal these two little fools, the sooner we can get on pootling off to that fiery mountain and get this all over and done with."

And, though it was small and weak, Frodo smiled.

* * *

The Battle of the Pelennor Fields had an end far swifter and stranger than Boromir could ever have hoped for. With the army of the dead obeying every word that came from Aragorn's lips, it had been unnervingly easy to intercept the fleet of Corsairs' ships travelling up the river towards Osgiliath. Even when the pirates lay dead on the decks and floated face down in the water, Boromir felt uneasy, and certain that there must be some catch, some trick.

But if there was a catch, it had not come to pass on the river. They sailed swiftly, and reached Osgiliath shortly after the Nazgûl arrived on the battlefield. Boromir had only a moment to mourn the sight before him, to despair at the legions of orcs trampling his own lands and cities, and then Aragorn had drawn his sword, and led him into battle.

It had been a bloody fight, but a brief one. Even as Boromir and his companions cut down dozens of orcs, the army of the dead tore through hundreds, swarming through the battlefield to decimate the orcs like a great wave toppling a sandcastle. Less than half an hour after they leapt out of the ship at the port of Osgiliath, the orcs were destroyed, the trolls all vanquished, and the great beasts of the Haradrim lay dead among their lords. The last of the men of Harad had surrendered, and been taken prisoner, and shouts of victory had rose among what was left of the Rohirrim, and the soldiers of Gondor.

And then the shouts of victory had died, as ever they did when men stopped, and looked around, and saw those who lay dead beneath them.

Once, the Pelennor Fields had been beautiful, a rich land of green grass and good earth, but now they were trampled and scorched, and drowning in the blood of the dying. There were so many dead, so many already lifeless and broken on the ground, and more were joining them by the moment. Wailing soldiers held their friends in their laps, and tried to shake life into corpses. Fully armed men begged brokenly for aid or for mercy, and the grief-stricken shrieked curses at the newly captured prisoners of war. It was too soon even for the healers to have reached the battlefield – they would still be in the city, and likely treating many a wounded soldier there, too.

But for once, Boromir's primary concern was not with finding survivors.

It was ensuring that his deadliest allies did not become a threat.

Standing at Aragorn's right-hand side, Boromir stared down the army of the dead. Their king was standing opposite Aragorn, his eyes locked on Isildur's heir, and his hand on his sword. A sense of dread was creeping up Boromir's spine, a fear that these ghosts would betray him, that they would sack his city and slaughter his people. He took a deep breath, and glanced at Aragorn.

The ranger did not flinch.

After a moment, the King of the Dead spoke, his voice the hiss of a cold winter's breeze. "You said you would release us."

With all the majesty of a High King of Númenor, Aragorn bowed his head. "You have my deepest thanks for your service, and have conducted yourselves with true honour. I hold your oaths fulfilled. Go now, and be at peace."

The Ghost King tilted back his head and smiled, and then he began to fade, and Boromir shivered. It took but a moment for the entire army to vanish, and a murmur of fear and confusion rippled throughout those soldiers who still had the wits to notice.

Boromir let out a slow, deep breath, and glanced at Aragorn. "Is that it? Is it over?"

Aragorn nodded slightly. "As far as they are concerned, it is. They have moved on."

"It feels too easy," Boromir murmured. "That we paid too little to gain so much."

"We were not the ones to pay," replied Aragorn, his voice sombre. "They paid in an age of restless wandering in their mountains, and they paid in their service here today."

"Well," grunted Gimli. "Easy or no, it was interesting. Can't say I'm glad to see them gone…"

Boromir nodded in agreement, rubbing his jaw and letting out a low sigh. He glanced down at Gimli, who was nursing a somewhat bruised arm, though it did not seem to be bothering him too much. Nearby stood Legolas, his own arm still bound against his chest, his eyes resting on the corpse of the oliphaunt that he had taken down himself. Gimli had taunted the rather magnificent tumble that the elf had taken down the face of the rampaging beast, but to be utterly fair, if Boromir had been fighting a battle with one arm, he might have lost his balance too. It was a deed to be proud of, tumble or no tumble – but Legolas was gazing at the beast with sorrow, not pride, and Boromir let out a low sigh.

They were alive. It had been a bloody fight, a battle that would go down in history, no doubt, but they were still alive. Further afield, he could see the sons of Elrond already tending to the wounded, and Halbarad was with them. The Ranger limped, and heavily, but he was on his feet.

Boromir wondered at what crazed luck had allowed them this mercy, had enabled his friends to escape death in two great battles in as many weeks.

A pang of grief struck him, and Boromir glanced away. No. His people lay dead around him, and no doubt he had friends among them. He knew that among them was King Théoden, and his doorman Hama, and the old commander Gamling.

 _And perhaps,_ whispered a terrified voice in the back of his mind, _even Faramir._

"Boromir? Are you alright?"

Boromir jumped, turning back to Aragorn. There was a look of grief and pity carved deep into the other man's face, a look that once, Boromir might have taken for patronisation. Now, he knew so much better. He gave a weak smile, and shook his head slightly.

"This… this is not how I would have returned to my city." He paused, rubbing his chin, and then he looked at Aragorn, and nodded. "But there is something that must be said, before anything else."

Aragorn frowned slightly. "Oh?"

His smile growing a little stronger, Boromir put a hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "Welcome home," he murmured. "My King."

The corner of Aragorn's mouth twitched towards a smile, though it did not hold. "I am not king yet. The city is in the hands of the steward, I will not take it from him."

"You are my king, whatever the letter of the law may say," swore Boromir. "My father will agree. But politics can wait – people here need help."

Aragorn tore his eyes away from the city and nodded, and together the men glanced over those still standing.

"Have either of you seen Merry, yet?" asked Gimli, his voice rather tight.

Boromir winced a little. "Not yet. We will find him, though."

And then the world was torn by apart by a scream.

Boromir whirled around, and his heart seized as he saw Éomer ran forward, throwing aside his shield and sword and crashing down to his knees, dragging a body into his lap. And then he wailed, unleashing a grief so raw it could mean only one thing.

A tumble of blonde hair fell over Éomer's arm, and as the young lord of Rohan threw back his head in despair, Boromir caught sight of Éowyn's lifeless face.

"By the stars," he breathed, feeling tears prick at his eyes.

Grief poured down into his chest, filling his lungs like water, and he closed his eyes. He was bitterly unsurprised that the Éowyn had snuck into the battle, but she had, and now Éomer was alone, and wailing to stars that would not hear him. A yearning to find Faramir swelled desperately within Boromir's heart, even as Aragorn made a small sound of grief and ran to Éomer's side. For the sake of his friends, Boromir made to follow, but then he heard something else – something that froze his blood to splintering ice in his veins.

A howl, high and mournful and afraid, and unlike any howl of men that he had ever heard. A howl that was utterly, unmistakeably, lupine.

 _Merry._

Horror clenching his heart, Boromir whirled around to find Gimli, but the dwarf had heard it too, and the blood had drained from his face. Without a word, Gimli lurched forward, speeding like an arrow out towards Éomer, unheeding of the voices that called to him. Legolas was on his heels like a shadow, and Boromir raced after them, a desperate prayer hanging on every frantic beat of his heart as they followed the sound of Denahi's howl.

 _Let him be alive, let him be alive, please let him be alive!_

Just beyond Éomer and Éowyn, Boromir saw it – the unmistakeable sight of a wolf draped over a tiny body, and he bit back a sob as Gimli flung himself down beside them with a heart-wrenching howl of his own, and Legolas turned his face away.

"Merry! No, no, no, look at me, Merry look at me, wake up! Wake up, wake up now, come on, Merry, please, please, no!" Gimli sobbed, shaking Merry's shoulders roughly. Denahi growled, but it was a pleading, pitiful sound intercut with a whine, and he made no attempt to stop Gimli. "No, no, no! Please, no, please!"

Boromir collapsed to his knees beside them, his strength stolen by the marble-white of Merry's face, the blood soaking through his side. Frantic, Gimli shook the hobbit again, wrenching him up off the floor, and Merry's head lolled lifelessly back towards Boromir.

And his eyes rolled under their lids.

"Put him down!" Boromir yelped, leaping forward and guiding Gimli's hands back down. "He's alive, he's alive, Gimli, put him down!"

An odd combination of a growl and a whimper left Gimli's lips, but he obeyed, lying Merry flat on the grass and pressing his fingers to the side of the hobbit's neck.

Merry made a small, broken sound, a blend between a moan and a whimper, and his head tilted to the side. His eyes were rolling beneath his eyelids and while he was pale as a corpse, there was a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead. His elven cape had been bunched up at his side, and bound around his waist with his belt, but it was no longer the green-grey colour of an evening shadow. It was dark, and sodden, and blood dripped from it down onto the ground below. Tentatively, Boromir reached towards it, peeling it a little way away from the hobbit's skin. Merry shuddered, his forehead twitching down towards a frown, but he made no sign of waking, and Boromir lifted the cloak further away.

At once, blood spilt out over Merry's hip, dark at first, and then brighter, fresher. It was not the deathly gushing of an arterial wound, but it was pulsing down his side, a slow, steady flow. It was coming from a long, angry wound just above the hobbit's hip – a deep puncture wound no longer than his wrist was wide, encircled by heavy bruising that could only be courtesy of the hilt of a sword.

It was an injury that Boromir recognised at once.

Merry had been stabbed.

Gimli choked wordlessly, and Boromir swore beneath his breath. Carefully, he lifted Merry up slightly, pulling the cape away from his back and confirming his worst suspicion.

"The blade went right through him," he whispered in horror, glancing at Gimli, who in turn looked up desperately.

"Legolas!" he cried, his voice breaking. "Legolas, help him, please, help him!"

Legolas shook his head slightly, his face pale as the moon and eyes alight with horror. He looked more like a wraith than an elf. "I – I-"

"You're a damn elf, aren't you?" yelled Gimli, looking up frantically. "Help him!"

"I am not a healer," protested Legolas weakly. "I know no more than you do of treating wounds, Gimli, I am sorry. I am so sorry."

Gimli gave a fierce sob and shook his head. "Aragorn – the elven twins – where are they?"

"They are with others," said Legolas, his voice trembling. Now that he had looked back, the elf seemed unable to tear his gaze from Merry's face, and Boromir caught sight of a tear tracing down his cheek. "Others equally injured."

The dwarf gave a wordless howl of fear and frustration, pressing his hand against Merry's cheek. Boromir took a deep breath.

"Then it is up to us. No one will not get here in time. Now I am no healer, but all soldiers of Gondor must learn how to treat injuries on the field. Gimli, put pressure on the wound, try to stop the bleeding. Legolas, see if you can find some cloaks, blankets, something to keep him from going into shock. I will be back in a moment, I promise." He glanced down at Merry and his heart twisted. If he was not breathing when Boromir returned… "Hold on, Merry," he murmured, a lump in his throat. He took a deep breath, and looked to the others. "Wait for me. I'll be back soon."

Without waiting for a reply, he shot to his feet and sprinted towards the city walls, leaping over the corpses of men and orcs alike. Faster than he had ever run in his life, Boromir fixed his eyes on the gate. If he could just get to the city, the guards and errand boys would already be out, and they would have battle boxes. If he could just get a battle box, Merry might stand a chance. His lungs burned and feet screamed at him to slow down, but Boromir refused, bursting through the broken door of his city and letting out a mighty bellow.

"Battle box! I need a battle box, now!"

The nearest soldiers all turned, but then, to Boromir's astonishment they all stopped in their tracks and stared at him. They made no move to fulfil his order, no sign of moving at all – they just stared at him as though staring at a ghost.

"What are you doing?" he demanded. "The battle boxes, where are they?"

"M-my lord, you're alive," stammered one of the captains, and Boromir growled.

"Yes, but unless you give me a damn battle box my friend won't be! Now!"

The soldiers jolted, but it was a young errand lad that finally did what he had asked, racing up with a box in hand.

"Here, my lord!" he breathed, and Boromir took it.

"Thank you," he said, pausing only long enough to send a scathing look at the soldiers. "Pull yourselves together before somebody pays the price for your stupidity!"

He heard one of the soldiers call after him, but he did not stop. Whatever it was they had to say could wait – he finally had the box in his hands, and he would make Merry wait no longer. He tore back through the battlefield, vaulting over the corpses of men and orcs alike. More of his people called his name, but they were all standing, which meant that they could all wait. Merry could not.

He skidded to a halt at Gimli's side, crashing down into the dirt and lowering the box carefully to the ground. "Any change?"

Gimli shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin white line. Legolas had procured several capes to lay over the hobbit, and had also propped his feet up on a broken shield.

"What is that?" the elf asked, his eyes wide with a fear that was almost childlike as they fell on the box.

"It's a battle box," Boromir explained, already rummaging inside it. "Regulation standard – it contains all the basics of battlefield healing. Long have we had them stored in the outer ring of the city, and long have our people taken them to any battle that falls beyond our lands. In war, there are always more wounded than there are healers, so the boxes can buy the injured a little more time. Has the bleeding stopped?"

Gimli shifted his hands, cringing slightly at the sight of the wound beneath them, but keeping his voice steady. "It's slowed right down…"

"Alright," said Boromir, taking a look for himself. A little, dark blood was still oozing down Merry's side, but Gimli was right. It was much slower. "Now, we must clean the wound."

"Here? Shouldn't we move him somewhere cleaner, somewhere safer?" worried Legolas.

Boromir shook his head, gently moving the remnants of Merry's clothes away from the wound. "We don't have time. The Healing Halls are up in the sixth layer of the city and no doubt there're already teeming. We _must_ bind the wound, and quickly, and if we don't try to clean it there is no chance that Merry will escape infection." Though he did not say it aloud, Boromir worried that the chances of Merry escaping infection were slim already. A blade had gone straight through the little one's body, and he doubted that the sword was thoroughly cleansed beforehand. Boromir took a large, stoppered bottle from the bottom of the box, and then took a deep breath.

"What is that?" asked Gimli, his voice raw. "Alcohol?"

"No, but its purpose is similar," said Boromir, sparing as little of the liquid as possible to wash over his hands. "We call it saline – it's nothing more than clean saltwater, but we have found it to be just as effective as alcohol when it comes to cleaning wounds. It is also cheaper, and stings less." He paused, wincing a little as he glanced at Gimli. "Of course, anything touching a wound like this will sting."

Gimli shuddered, and squeezed his eyes shut. With a shaking hand, he brushed Merry's hair away from his forehead, and then he nodded, gently lifting the hobbit's body up a little and holding him steady, so that the exit wound was no longer pressed to the ground. "Do it."

Boromir nodded gravely, and poured the solution over and into the gaping gash in Merry's side. The hobbit jolted and shuddered, but even as he cringed away, he did not wake. His tears tracking down into his beard, Gimli held the young hobbit in place, and Boromir flushed the wound as thoroughly as he could.

Red as a summer rose, the saline began to drain out of the exit wound on Merry's back, and Boromir repressed a shudder of his own. He kept pouring until the bottle of saline was spent, and when it was they waited anxiously until the draining became a dripping, and Merry's violent shudders had dulled to shivers. Finally, finally, it did, and Boromir grabbed the small green pot that he knew to be full of the ointment healers used to ward off infection.

"Hold him steady, Gimli," he said, his voice shaking a little. "This is the most effective salve that we have, but it stings like a hive of bees."

Gimli flinched, but nodded, and Boromir dipped a clean cloth into the ointment. Merry did not move when Boromir wiped clean the area around the wound, but as soon as he reached its edge Merry jolted violently. A whimper tore from the young hobbit's throat and his body twisted away, but Legolas crashed down onto his knees and held him in place.

"Merry, Merry, it's alright!" Gimli promised, but his words came out like broken pleading. "I'm here, Merry, it's alright, I'm here!"

Merry let out a strangled cry, squirming to get away from Boromir's touch, but his eyes remained closed, and he showed no sign that he could hear Gimli's words. No sign that, despite his thrashing and screaming, Merry was any closer to waking.

A lump growing in his throat, Boromir ripped open the sealed bags at the bottom of the battle-box, revealing clean, white dressings. Legolas and Gimli helped him to dress the wounds properly, but he warned against drawing the bandages too tight.

"If he does catch an infection, it will need room to breathe," he warned, and Gimli groaned, dropping his forehead down onto Merry's.

"What've you done to yourself, you stupid little hobbit?" He closed his eyes, murmuring soft words in dwarvish that Boromir could not understand. After a long moment, the dwarf sighed, and raised his eyes. "Thank you, Boromir."

Boromir sighed, and took Merry's cold, clammy hand in his own. "Don't thank me yet. I would still have him seen by a true heal- what is that?"

A cold wave of horror swept over Boromir as he turned the hobbit's arm fully towards him, revealing a series of vivid, black marks across his skin. In shape, they looked like the ragged scars or cuts, but there was no sign that the skin was torn. It was no dirt, either – it did not shift or smudge beneath Boromir's thumb, and something about it struck fear into Merry's heart.

Legolas hissed, and what little colour he had left drained from his cheeks. With a cry that could only be described as despair, he leapt to his feet. " _Aragorn! Elladan, Elrohir! I dúath en Nazgûl, i perian baur athae! I dúath en Nazgûl, i taith en Nazgûl – natha-e!"_

"What does that mean?" cried Gimli, his voice ringing with fear. "What's going on? Legolas?!"

" _Natha-e, natha men!_ " yelled Legolas, fear in his eyes, and Boromir's heart seized. He may not have paid half as much attention as his brother had during lessons, but he knew what Legolas was calling now.

 _Help him. Help us._

"What is going on?" begged Gimli, his voice almost a wail. "Legolas-" The dwarf broke off as Aragorn sprinted over, his own eyes tight with fear.

"Where?" he asked Legolas immediately, and the elf pointed to the strange, black marks on the hobbit's arm. Aragorn swore quietly, turning over Merry's arm beneath his fingers.

"Éowyn bares the same marks – I think I understand now."

"Understand what?" demanded the dwarf. "What does this mean, Aragorn, what's wrong with him? Of all the damn times to speak in riddles-"

"It means that Merry and Éowyn took down a Nazgul – but they have paid a heavy price. No blade could strike so foul a creature without shattering, and I fear that is what happened to both their swords. When the shards of Merry's flew back and bit into him, they brought with them the poison of the Nazgul, that even in death the wraith may claim a final victim. We must get him to the Houses of Healing, and quickly. Éowyn, too. They need medicine, herbs that you will find in no battle box. By any luck, some of the healers for Gondor still listen to the Old Lore – there may yet be athelas in the city."

Boromir's heart skipped a beat. "Wait – Éowyn is alive?"

Aragorn looked at him grimly. "For now, but she is very week. She needs healing, she needs athelas. Do you know if they keep it in the Houses of Healing?"

Boromir shook his head. "I don't, I am sorry. But if we want to find out, we must get there, and quickly."

Aragorn paused. "If I go into that city without the leave of your father-"

"Oh, damn the politics," growled Boromir, rising to his feet. "You have my leave, that is enough."

Aragorn nodded, smiling wearily. Then, he gave a sharp whistle, and the silhouettes of six horses emerged from Osgiliath. Unlike the Rohirrim, they had not ridden into the Battle of the Pelennor fields. Aragorn had insisted that they let the horses rest in Osgiliath, when the army of the dead had rid it of orcs, and now Boromir could kiss him for it. Like a pack of eager dogs called for supper, the horses galloped straight to them, dodging the wounded and the corpses with the grace of dancers to bay for Aragorn's attention.

At once, Boromir grabbed Baelfot's reins and pulled him to, mounting the horse in a heartbeat as Gimli and Legolas got to their feet. With great care, Gimli eased Merry into Legolas' arms, and then he held out his hand to Boromir, who pulled him up and onto the horse. As soon as he was settled, Legolas and Aragorn lifted Merry into the dwarf's waiting arms.

When Merry was cradled safely against Gimli's chest, Boromir took the reins around them, and glanced down at Aragorn. "You say we must get to the healers – even if they have this athelas, will they know how to use it?"

"Probably not," he admitted. "But I do. I must help Éomer get his sister onto a horse, but I will be right behind you. Legolas, will you help me?"

Legolas looked at Gimli, and the dwarf gave a gruff smile. "You meet us up there, laddie. Come up with Aragorn."

"It will be a matter of minutes we are parted," Aragorn promised, and Legolas gave a hesitant nod, following Aragorn and the horses away as Boromir urged Baelfot towards the city.

A stuttering, whimpering howl drew Boromir's attention over his shoulder, and he saw Denahi limping behind them, trying to keep up with a desperate sorrow in his voice, but there was no chance of it. Pain shot across Boromir's heart, but then he saw Legolas jog back, and murmur something into the wolf's ear. The howling ceased, and the beast struggled after Legolas, back towards Aragorn.

Biting back tears, Boromir pressed on, making a beeline for the gates of the city. Before he could pass them, however, another horse cantered towards him – a horse with a rider he knew very well.

"Lord Imrahil," he called, slowing Baelfot only a fraction. He saw his uncle's face melt into a look of relief as he drew his horse beside Boromir's, turning to ride back up into the city.

"Boromir," he said. "It is good to see you alive. News of your passing reached the city days ago, through the lies of Gríma Wormtongue."

Gimli growled beneath his breath, and Boromir scowled. "The filth. Well, I am not dead – and we can discuss that later. The politics can wait. My friend is gravely wounded, we need to get to the Houses of Healing."

Imrahil glanced at Merry, his eyes darkening with sombre sorrow. "Very well, but hear me now – news of your death was not taken well by your father. He organised no defence for the city, as the hordes of Mordor closed in. He hid in his rooms, and cursed Mithrandir even as the wizard held our defences."

Confusion almost had Boromir slowing his horse, but resolve pushed him onwards and he shook his head. "No. My father is a great Lord, he would never-"

"He did," said Imrahil gravely. "Boromir, you know I would not tell you this here, like this, except for where you are going. When you reach the Houses of Healing, you will find your brother there."

Boromir froze. The horse kept moving, and Imrahil kept riding beside him, but Boromir's body became still as stone, colder than the ice of the mountains. He knew Imrahil, and he knew the look on his face. He knew that it was not good.

"Why?" he gasped, and Imrahil shook his head.

"Lord Denethor sent him, alone, to bolster the survivors of a defeated battalion in Osgiliath. They were but fifty men, and Denethor ordered them to hold the river. Faramir gave the order to retreat, and rightly so, but he was struck by a poisoned arrow during their flight, and he has lain unconscious for days, now. The last I heard, the other halfling was with him."

Gimli stiffened, and Boromir's voice felt like sandpaper in his throat as he asked, "Pippin? Is he hurt too?"

"No, no, Master Took is fine, so far as I know. But he has been spending a lot of time at Faramir's bedside. Something about a debt he owed to you…"

A sick sense of guilt added to the mess of emotion in Boromir's gut at the thought of Pippin feeling that he owed any debt, but it was quickly washed away by the wave of horror crashing down upon him at Imrahil's words.

"Will he live? My brother, Uncle, will he live?"

"We don't know," said Imrahil softly. "There is hope, but he is very weak. And…" He glanced at Gimli, and then at his own horse. They were moving up through the city as swiftly as they could, while maintaining conversation, and Boromir knew that no one else would overhear them.

"What?" he demanded. "Anything you may say to me you may say before Gimli – he is as true a friend as any I have ever known."

Imrahil sighed. "Boromir, Mithrandir and I heard from the lad who had taken a plea to retreat from Osgiliath to the city – he witnessed Denethor tell your brother – he heard him tell your brother not to come back, if he did not reclaim the river."

"What?" Boromir whispered, pulling the horse to a halt. "Uncle, no, he – he cannot have – he would never have said –"

Imrahil shook his head sadly. "I am sorry, Boromir. I would not tell you this if I thought it was not true."

"Boromir, please," begged Gimli. "Merry-"

"I know," he choked, urging the horse onwards again. "I'm sorry. Quickly now!"

They cantered up through the city without another word, and the moment that they reached the Houses of Healing, Boromir leapt down from the horse before it even had a chance to stop. His knees wobbled, but he ignored them to greet the healer running out to meet them. Only moments later, Aragorn clattered into the courtyard, and the healer nodded.

"One person per patient," she said, glancing at the crowd of them, and Boromir nodded, lifting Gimli and Merry down together.

"Go with Merry," he said, rather needlessly. As if Gimli would let anyone take his cousin from him now. "I will talk to Pippin. And – and find my brother." Gimli nodded, carrying Merry quickly into the Healing Halls. Boromir turned to the healer, gesturing at Aragorn. "This man is a good friend of mine, and has some good ideas on how to heal these people. Trust him, and do as he says, I implore you."

"Of course, my lord," said the healer, curtseying deeply before hurrying to help Éomer and Aragorn carry Éowyn inside. Only then did Legolas dismount, and to Boromir's surprise, the elf carried Denahi down from the back of his horse too.

"He is wounded," said Legolas softly, holding the full-grown wolf as though it was a puppy. "If there is a space, I might try to help him. I know more of animals than man, and if Merry wakes up and finds out anything's happened to Denahi…"

Boromir bowed his head, but his uncle read his face and nodded.

"Of course, Master Elf. Follow me. Your brother is in the seventh chamber on the right-hand side, Boromir," he said, and Boromir nodded.

"Thank you," he breathed, throwing himself straight into the long hall. As he ran down it, he heard every moan, every cry, and counted doors breathlessly until he came to the seventh.

And then he stopped.

His father had told Faramir to reclaim Osgiliath, or die trying. His father knew Osgiliath could not be held with fifty men.

His father had commanded Faramir to die.

In doing so, Denethor had shattered the ground beneath Boromir's feet, brought the sky crashing down upon his head. Too long he had brushed his father's behaviour under the carpet, excused his favouritism with mutterings about grief and stress, but not this.

Boromir could never forgive this. And if Faramir died –

He bit back a sob, and pushed his way into the room.

And he saw Faramir propped up on a couple of pillows, gazing hazily at the side of the bed.

Gazing.

Awake.

Alive.

Boromir's knees gave way beneath him and he crashed to the floor, eliciting a gasp from the small figure beside Faramir's bed.

"Boromir! I told you, I told you, Faramir!" Beaming, Pippin leapt to his feet, hurrying over and throwing his arms around Boromir. Unable to tear his eyes from his brother, Boromir held Pippin close and tried to remember how to breathe.

"Bo'mir," murmured Faramir, his voice weaker than a new-born babe's. "You… came back…"

"Of course I came back," Boromir whispered, letting go of Pippin gently.

"He's been awake for nearly an hour," said Pippin proudly. "Beregond's gone to help the healers, now that Faramir's awake. He didn't believe me, though, Faramir, when I said you were alive."

Boromir rose shakily, staggering across the room to sit on the edge of his brother's bed. Faramir was pale and clammy, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes, but when Boromir took his hand it was warm. Smiling weakly, Boromir held his brother's hand against his heart. "Pippin was right. I am home now, little brother. I love you, so much."

Faramir's lips twitched towards a smile. "I love you, too."

"I know," Boromir murmured, taking a deep breath and turning to the still smiling hobbit. He held out his free hand and squeezed Pippin's shoulder. "Pippin… there's something I need to tell you."

At once, Pippin went very still. "What? What is it?"

Boromir took a deep breath. "It's… it's Merry. He, he has been wounded, Pippin."

"Wounded?" Pippin's eyes widened, and he made to move toward the door. "Where – where is he, I have to go to him-"

"No." Boromir held Pippin's shoulder tightly, swallowing the lump in his throat. "Not yet, Pippin. Gimli is with him, and Aragorn, but we cannot crowd the healers."

"He'll want to see me!" said Pippin angrily, and Boromir felt his tears spill over at last.

"He cannot see anyone, Merry," he whispered. "He is not conscious."

"Why?" cried Pippin, starting to shake. "Why – what happened, where is he? What happened, Boromir, what happened?"

"He was stabbed," Boromir admitted painfully, moving his hand to Pippin's cheek. "He was stabbed, and quite, quite badly."

"Where?"

"Here," Boromir murmured, resting his finger over Pippin's hipbone. "Pippin, the sword went right through him."

Pippin whimpered, and fell towards the door. "Merry!"

"Wait!" Boromir leapt forward, releasing Faramir's hand to grab Pippin around the waist. "Wait, Pippin-"

"Merry!" Pippin wailed, kicking back at Boromir desperately. "Merry! Let me go, let me go, he needs me!"

"He needs you to stay calm, and let the healers work," said Boromir, holding Pippin tightly. "Please, Pippin, do you think I would keep you from him if I did not absolutely have to? It's me."

"He needs me!" whimpered Pippin, and Boromir shook his head.

"I know. I know, but we must be strong for him, now."

Pippin gave a little sob, and fell limp in Boromir's arms. Swallowing, Boromir stepped back onto the edge of Faramir's bed again, cradling Pippin against his chest as though he was just a little child. He thought that the hobbit might protest, but instead Pippin curled into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Boromir's neck and clinging to him desperately.

"I'm sorry, Pippin. I'm so sorry. But the healers are with him, they'll look after him. And Aragorn and Gimli, they will do everything that they can." Resting his head against Pippin's cheek, Boromir looked back at his brother.

Faramir's eyes were still clouded, but they were fixed on Boromir, and a single tear was trailing down his cheek. Boromir reached out and took his brother's hand in his own again. He thought of Merry, and Éowyn, and those fighting for their lives in and around his city. He thought of those who had died for it.

And Boromir bowed his head, and prayed.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, it's been tricky to finish. I think I'm mostly satisfied with it. Please do let me know what you think, I'd love to know.**

 **I hope to update again next week, but life is really rather busy right now, so I can't make any promises, but until next time, thanks for reading, and take care.**


	91. Chapter 91: Mama Knows Best

**Hey there! I'm sorry about the delay this week, but I do have two chapters tonight to make up for it ;) Thank you to all my lovely reviewers for the wonderful response to the last chapter, and I hope to update again soon.**

 **As ever, please forgive my typos.**

 **Chapter Ninety One: Mama Knows Best**

Esmeralda Brandybuck woke suddenly in the dark, struck to the bone with a crippling, inexplicable terror that something was wrong.

Her hand flew up to cover her mouth, muffling the sound of her gasping breaths, and she shuddered, sitting up in bed and listening intently. She could hear Saradoc breathing deeply beside her, hear her brother snoring the next room. She could hear the wind blowing gently outside.

And she could hear nothing else. Nothing that would indicate danger, nothing that would suggest there was anything wrong. There was nothing to see, or hear, or even smell that would suggest that things were not right, but she felt it, a sensed deep in her gut that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Silently, she slipped out of bed and into the hallway, tiptoeing past her brother's room, and Pearl's room, and her parents' room, but she heard nothing. Nothing except a gentle silence, and the soft, snuffling sleep sounds of her family.

Her gut clenched tighter.

Holding her breath, she pushed open the door to the children's room, and then and there, at last, she sighed. Orla, Ola and Bodin were all curled up safely in bed, tucked in, and sleeping soundly.

She leant against the doorframe, letting her chin fall against her chest. Her heart was still racing, and as she raised her chilled fingers to press against her neck, she felt no sign of her pulse slowing. Something was wrong.

The wind stirred the curtains, and spilt moonlight into the room that used to be hers. It seemed a lifetime ago, now. When this was her room, life was easy, and life was sweet. All the things that had troubled her then now seemed so petty. When that room was hers, she had worried about what might happen if Lobelia made good on her promise of making Kíli and Bilbo social pariahs, or whether or not Eglantine's flirting with Paladin was genuine. It had been by that window she had worried about what to wear to the May Ball, and whether or not Saradoc liked her back.

In fact, it had been in that room that she had given birth to Merry.

Pregnancy had not been kind to Esme. She had been plagued by sickness and discomfort and dizziness, and in her seventh month she and Saradoc had moved back into her parents' house. The birth had gone far from smoothly – for over twenty-seven hours Esme had languished in the pains of labour, pains worse than anything she had ever imagined. Her mother had been forced to manoeuvre the baby's position while he was still in the womb to stop him from being born feet first, and when the time came at last to push, Esme was so exhausted that she was barely able to deliver him.

She could still remember hearing the frantic, muffled voices of her brothers as Paladin and Kíli stood outside the door begging to see her, to know whether or not she was alright, and she remembered Saradoc crying as he held her, begging her to push just one more time, hold on for just a little longer.

She remembered the first time she saw Merry, a large, healthy child, and she remembered thinking that a babe who could cry so loudly with lungs so strong had no need to make his mother so uncomfortable. She remembered smiling about that, she remembered knowing at once that she would do it again, that she would do anything, for the little one in her arms. Anything, and everything, for Merry.

She did not remember much after that, for unconsciousness had taken her only moments after her son was placed into her arms. It was months before Saradoc could admit to her how terrified he had been, how certain he was that she was dying, that he would have to raise their son alone, and Esme felt awful for him. But she regretted nothing. From that birth, that awful, never-ending labour that had ended any hopes she had for a large family, she had been given the single most perfect being in the world. She had been given her little Merry.

A sudden thrill of horror shot through her.

It was Merry. Something was wrong with Merry – she knew it was, she felt it, felt it in her heart, and she whirled around, sprinting down the hall to wake Saradoc, to warn him, but she stopped short of the door.

She could not tell him. Not like this – to wake him and tell him that their baby was in trouble without any proof or reason… It was not fair. The frantic fear in the flutter of her heart and the aching pain in her gut were not proof, and the grim feeling that she had hit the nail on the head was nothing more than a feeling. It was evidence of nothing. And there was nothing she could do to find out if she was right or not.

She could not find him. She had no way of finding her baby. He might be hurt, or afraid, or in danger, but he was also far away.

There was nothing she could do.

She felt the heat of tears rise in her eyes, and pressed her palm against her mouth.

 _No sound, now_ , she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. No _sound. No one else needs to suffer for my nightmare._

They were suffering enough already.

The war had reached the heart of the Shire now, there was no way to deny it. The raids on Hobbiton were weekly, almost daily, and it was starting to feel more like a spot of sport for their attackers than it did a prolonged war effort. Since Halbarad had left in search of aid, battle at Bywater had claimed the lives of thirty hobbits and five Rangers, and a second had cost twenty hobbits more, but then the large-scale fights seemed to stop. Instead, the raiders had come in smaller droves, destroying farms and houses, ransacking homes and burning gardens.

Killing, when the mood seemed to take them.

Altogether, nearly seventy hobbits now lay buried before the memorial mound in Hobbiton, alongside eight of the Rangers that had been protecting them, and Esme mourned them all, deeply and fiercely, but she knew in her heart that if the ruffians attacked in full force, the whole of Hobbiton would likely be underground. Their nameless enemy was a spiteful cat, and they were the mouse between its paws.

Yet still, the hobbits of Hobbiton and the surrounding villages were closing in around the dwarflings in their care with a determination that surprised even Esme. True, it was safety in numbers that drew many folk from the smaller villages into Bywater and Hobbiton, but in every raid that had taken place, no less than a dozen hobbits had surrounded the Took house, and the raiders had not seen hide or hair of the little dwarflings.

Not yet.

It was getting close, though. Last week, it had got far too close for comfort.

 _Esme studied the apples carefully, as if it really mattered which one was the greenest, or which would be the juiciest. Going through the motions was now the main driving force of Hobbiton's marketplace, with folk trying to go about their business as normally as possible. They were all trying desperately to hold on to some semblance of control, of routine, and so far, no attacks had been made on the marketplace. Not with the Rangers keeping watch, and the sun high above them._

 _That was why Bodin was at her side, his hand tucked into her sleeve, and his eyes gazing out at the meadows beyond the water. A tang of pity tugged at her heart. He wanted to play, to run through the fields like a normal child, but that was impossible now. No child in Hobbiton was running free, or playing in the fields. It was too dangerous._

 _For the dwarflings, security was even tighter – Esme, Saradoc and Paladin had agreed to take them out only one at a time. One dwarfling with curls in their hair was far easier to mistake for a hobbit than three. Ellie argued that they should all be kept inside at all times, but that did not seem fair to Esme. If the rest of the Shire could have an hour to pretend everything was alright, the dwarflings should too. Yesterday, Saradoc had taken Ola to visit the Cottons, and the day before Paladin had brought Orla with him on his trip to check in on Hamfast Gamgee. Today was Bodin's turn._

 _A bloodcurdling scream tore through the market, and Esme gasped, grabbing Bodin and throwing him behind her skirts even as she turned towards the sound. She felt his little hands grab onto the strings of her apron, and she slowly lifted the blanket from her basket, unveiling the bow inside as the crowd staggered back around her._

 _As the hobbits parted, Esme's heart dropped – there was a dwarf in the marketplace, clad all in black, and clutched in his arms was little Ruby Smallburrow, screaming for her mother with cheeks that blazed bright red. Posy was only a few feet away, screaming just as hysterically for her daughter, but there were two hobbits holding her back as the dwarf raised his knife._

 _"Hail, Shire-folk!" yelled the dwarf, his voice lilting with an accent that Esme did not recognise. Silently, she took hold of an arrow and placed her basket down on the market stall. The dwarf was smirking, his knife pointed at the wailing girl's cheek. "Now, I don't need to hurt this little lass here, not if you all cooperate. I think an even trade will suffice – you hand over the son of the dwarven Lord Bombur, and you can have your little lass back, how about that?"_

 _Bodin whimpered, his hands twisting tighter around Esme's apron, and she drew a deep breath. Then, moving as fast as her body would allow her, she wrenched her bow into position, aimed, and loosed the arrow, with a precision as good as Kíli's. The dwarf was dead before he hit the ground, Esme's arrow lodged firmly in his eye. Ruby flung herself up and into her mother's arms, and Esme snatched Bodin from the ground._

 _"Get him out of here!" hissed Amaranth, the grocer, pawing at Esme's arm and pushing her back towards the Took House. "Quick, Esmeralda, there could be more of them! Get him home, get him safe! Go!"_

Esme had run, and she had not stopped until the door was bolted behind her. Bodin had sobbed himself to sleep for three nights in a row, after that. Not even his sisters could stop his tears.

They had not let the dwarflings out of the house since, and the same could be said for most hobbit children. There was no more laughter shrieking through the hills as the little ones ran free, and no more children skipping from house to house to ask others to play. On the rare occasion when you would catch sight of a child, their hand would be firmly cased in an adult's, and they would not be outside for long. Instead, they would be hidden behind closed doors, doors that now had not only keyholes, but bolts and chains, and often a doorstop or two for good measure.

The ironsmiths had never been so busy, nor had they ever worked for a cheaper price. Day after day, they churned out new bolts, new locks, new chains, and they took only the cost of the materials as payment. The carpenters were scurrying around delivering them, and installing them free of charge, and as they did, those who classed themselves as hunters shadowed them with bows at the ready, covering their backs in case of sudden attack. In the Shire, they looked after their own.

On the day that Esme first met Dís, the dwarf had been shocked to find that the Bagginses left their front door unlocked when they went out for the day, and even more so when she discovered that locking the door at night was unusual.

Now, every soul in Hobbiton locked their doors at night. It had become a ritual, one shared by every household. Bolt the windows, pull the curtains, lock the doors. Stay in the house until sunrise, unless you were due to take over a watch – or you heard the horns of the rangers, or of the bounders. Keep the lights to the minimum, stay quiet, stay low –

Esme shot upright with a sudden thrill of horror.

Bolt the windows.

The curtain in the children's room had been drifting in the breeze.

The window had been bolted before they went to bed.

She raced down the hall and skidded into the room, and the breath fled from her lungs.

The curtain was still swaying gently in the breeze, and the moonlight was still dappling on the ground. And the children were still sleeping, undisturbed, in their bed.

Not daring to even breath, Esme snuck across the room and peered out from behind the curtains, scouring the garden outside for any sign that there was something wrong. At once, she caught sight of a tall, hooded figure walking along the nearby road, but as her hands curled into fists he turned, and the moonlight fell on his face. It was one of the rangers, Aldaron, and when he caught her eye he gave a small nod. She nodded back, and he turned away, continuing on his rounds in silence.

Carefully, Esme leant forward, checking the flowerbeds beneath the window – they were untouched, undisturbed, without so much as a bent leaf, let alone a footprint. There was no sign that anyone had been there, and when she ran her fingers over the window-frame she found no evidence that the window had been forcefully opened from the outside.

As slowly as she could, she pulled the window tight, latched it, and then rattled it slightly, just to make sure that the bolt stayed in place.

"'m sorry, Auntie Esme," mumbled a small voice, and she jumped, her hand landing on her heart even as she turned to look at Orla. The older twin was sitting up slightly, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. "I – I thought I heard Adad."

"What?" Esme murmured, crouching down before the bed to look the girl in the eye. "When?"

Orla sniffed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "I – I woke up, and, I thought I heard hooves, and voices, it sounded like Ada. I wanted it to be… but when I opened the window it was just the guard changing over. I meant to close it, I did, but… but I, I was worried that if Adad did come and I didn't hear him, he wouldn't know where I was. I, I just fell back to sleep. I'm sorry."

Esme smiled, sadly, adjusting the rollers in Orla's hair so that they were no longer hanging in her face. "You don't need to be sorry, sweet-pea. I know you miss Amad and Adad. I miss them too. But it's not safe anymore to leave the windows open."

Orla's eyes filled with tears, and her little lip began to tremble. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You don't need to be sorry," said Esme again. "You just need to try not to do it again. If your Adad comes to get you, he will find you. No closed window could keep him away."

"Will he come soon?" whispered Orla, reaching out and winding her fingers into Esme's hair. "I'm… I'm starting to get a little bit scared, Auntie Esme."

"Me too, darling, me too." Esme swallowed, and shook her head slightly. "I don't know when your Adad will come. He might send Uncle Bofur and Uncle Bifur back instead, if he has to stay with the little ones in the mountain."

Orla sighed, leaning forward to rest her head against Esme's. "I want to go home now," she whimpered, and Esme felt a lump rise in her throat.

"I know, sweet-pea. I know. I want to go home too." She closed her eyes, pressing her face to the little dwarfling's for a moment, but then she pulled away, and poked the tip of Orla's nose, doing her best to smile. "Come now, we won't get to sleep again in this state. Let's get some nice camomile tea and a biscuit or two, shall we?"

Orla considered this for a moment and then nodded, and Esme lifted her up out of bed. It was starting to get tricky – Orla was easily up to Esme's ribcage now, and dwarves were nothing if not sturdy, but she made no complaint as she carried Orla down the hall and into the kitchen. Their stores of tea were beginning to grow low, particularly the black tea that always grew best in the South Farthing, where the earth was a little warmer. It was becoming more expensive as travel between the farthings grew less frequent and more dangerous, and few of the market traders had any left. Even Old Stoker's tea rooms were running low on stock, and folk had started to make three or even four cups of tea from the same leaves before throwing them away.

Tonight, however, Esme used a generous scoop of camomile, and sprinkled in a little hops, in an attempt to keep the nightmares at bay. Wrapped up in blankets by the fireside, she and Orla sipped slowly their tea, and the felt its heat try to untie the knot in her stomach.

"Auntie Esme?" asked Orla hesitantly, her eyes fixed on the swirling tea. "Couldn't… couldn't we just go home?"

Esme frowned slightly. "What do you mean, darling?"

"Well, you could take us home," said Orla quietly. "You and Uncle Saradoc and Uncle Paladin and Auntie Ellie, you all know how to travel, and, and Dad-dad and Mam-mad could come too, and we could just go _home_ , go back to Amad and Adad before the bad men could get us."

Esme's heart sank, and she shook her head sadly. "I don't think that's a good idea, sweetheart."

"But why? I want to go home now, and you, you said you wanted to go to!"

"I do," promised Esme, leaning forward slightly. "I do, Orla, but it's not that simple. Firstly, you know that Saradoc and Pal and I aren't enough to protect you on our own – we know little more than basic self-defence, and we've never travelled without dwarven protection before. As for Dad-dad and Mam-mad, they're getting old, sweet-pea, and a journey so long would be very difficult, even if the world were not at war. The world outside is just as dangerous as the Shire now, if not more so."

Orla's lip trembled, and she gave small, sob-like hiccup. "I want to go home."

Esme closed her eyes for a moment, praying that it would keep the tears at bay. "I know. I know…" A sudden thought had her eyes flying open again, and she looked carefully at the girl before her. "Orla – you were not thinking about running away, were you?"

Orla frowned heavily, looking rather affronted. "No."

"Are you sure? Because that would be very dangerous and very selfish, if you did…"

"I know!" said Orla, her eyebrows descending down towards a scowl. "I wasn't! And if I was I would take Ola and Bodin with me, wouldn't I?"

"Alright, alright," said Esme, in as soothing a tone as she could conjure. "I'm sorry. I had to ask, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

Orla's scowl lingered for a moment as she studied Esme's eyes, but then it faded, leaving only weariness and sorrow on the child's face. "It's alright, Auntie Esme."

 _None of this is alright,_ Esme thought, but she forced herself to smile slightly.

"How about a story?" she said. "A nice fairy-tale to help you get back to sleep?"

Orla nodded, snuggling back into her blankets expectantly, and sipping on her tea. Esme began to talk slowly, reciting a tale her mother used to tell about two sisters and a great, enchanted bear, and after a while Orla's eyes began to droop. Eventually, she nodded over her teacup and Esme prised it gingerly from her fingers. When Orla sighed, but did not stir, Esme picked her up and carried her back into bed, tucking her in next to her sister. A small, mumbled half-sigh that sounded almost like a thank you left the little one's lips, but Esme may well have imagined it.

Exhaustion was taking a hold of her too, now, but she walked once more around the house, listening at bedroom doors for snoring and breathing, and checking all the windows and doors she could reach, before she finally returned to her room.

She was satisfied that the house was safe, that no raid would come that night, but she felt no better for it. If nothing was wrong here, then she had no more doubt in her mind. Something had happened to Merry, and she was not there for him.

Fighting back tears, she crept into bed beside Saradoc, and he sighed.

"Was just about to send a search party," he mumbled, his arm weaving around her. "You alright?"

She nodded against his chest, swallowing. "Fine."

He paused, long enough that she wondered if he had fallen back to sleep, but then he pressed a kiss to her hair. "You sure? You're shivering…"

"I…" she broke off, wrapping her arm around his chest. "It's nothing, I, I'm sure it's nothing."

"I'm not," he murmured, stroking her cheek gently. "Talk to me, Esme… Don't shut me out, now."

She swallowed, glancing up at him. She could only see the outline of his face in the darkness, but she could feel him waiting, and she sighed. "I… I just have a horrible feeling," she admitted. "And I – I'm afraid that something's wrong. With… with Merry."

Saradoc's arm tightened around her, and he rested his cheek against the top of her hair. "Me too," he whispered. "Me too. I – I just wish there was something we could do…" She heard him sniff, heard the thickness of unshed tears in his voice, and then Saradoc gave a shuddering sigh. "I – I love you, Esmeralda."

A small sob escaped her, and her fingers tightened around his pyjama shirt. "I love you too. So much."

"Merry… he'll be alright," whispered Saradoc. "Kíli will find him. You know he will, you know he… he'll find him, and he'll keep him safe. You know he will, he always has. Whatever's happened, if, if anything even has – Kíli will fix it."

Esme gave a watery laugh, and nodded slightly. "That wouldn't surprise me."

"Because it's true, and predictable," said Saradoc, his voice sounding a little stronger. "They'll be alright, Esme. I'm sure they will." He kissed her gently, and ran a hand through her hair. "Come, let's try and get a little sleep, at least. You must be exhausted."

But sleep scorned Esme until morning. She drifted away several times, only to be bombarded by nightmares, or woken a minute later by the hoot of an owl or the whisper of the breeze. When the sun began to break over the horizon and into the room, she felt as though she had not slept at all.

Still, there were dwarflings to protect, and to entertain, and they were early risers, so Esme hauled herself out of bed, ignoring the fatigue that enveloped her, and the dull ache of worry in her gut. She put on the kettle as usual, and brewed a strong pot of coffee, and then she began to toast the last of the bread.

She tried not to think about where the next loaf would come from. They had enough flour for one batch of dough, maybe two but then they would be utterly out, and she had not seen a bag of flour in the market for nearly two weeks – not since the Old Mill was burnt down, in any case. The loaves prepared by the bakers were growing smaller by the day, and belts were growing tighter.

Esme closed her eyes.

And someone knocked on the front door.

She stiffened, her hand tightening around the bread knife. Dawn had barely broken, and no one in the Shire would be out so early by choice – not anymore. She stepped towards the hall, only to pause and put down the bread knife in favour of the hunting knife hanging from the wall. The door knocked again, louder, more insistent, and she slunk down the hall. Bodin popped his head out of the door, and Pearl appeared in the doorway of another room in a frown and a nightgown, but Esme waved them back into their respective bedrooms. As the two doors slammed, two more opened, and Saradoc and Paladin stepped out from behind them. Saradoc's slingshot was already pulled back, and the arrow nocked in Paladin's bow was aiming at the door.

She nodded, and they nodded back, faces grave and grim, and stepped closer. Before she could demand the identity of the knocker, they knocked again, and she steeled herself, but then a voice she recognised floated through the wood.

"Hello? Is anyone home? Ellie? Paladin?"

Not trusting to hope or faith, Esme drew her shoulders back. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice ringing loud and clear in the small, homely hallway.

"It's Ori," said the knocker, the plaintive innocence in his voice daring her to trust him. "And Master Glorfindel, and a few more elves after that. We're here to help."

Esme glanced over her shoulder at her boys. Paladin's eyes were narrowed, but indecision folded his brow, and Saradoc shook his head with a slight shrug of his shoulders. He did not know either. With a pang, Esme wished desperately that Kíli was there. He would know what to do– he always knew.

Her heart in her throat, she peeked out of the window by the door, catching sight of the dwarf standing outside. It certainly looked like Ori. Her hand moved to the bolt, but then she paused. Once upon a time, traitors had used a look-alike of Dwalin to torture Kíli.

She took a deep breath. "If you are Ori," she called, "then tell me – what is my son's middle name?"

The voice gave a soft laugh. "Merry's? He doesn't have one, officially – but according to Kíli it's Archibald Stinkerpot."

A small smile twitched onto Esme's cheek, and she glanced over her shoulder again. Paladin still looked uncertain, but Saradoc nodded, and Esme unlocked the door. She opened it a crack, and there was Ori, looking a little weather worn, and worse for the wear, but also healthy and whole, and as soon as she was sure that there was no ruffian behind him holding a knife against his ribs, Esme leapt forward.

"Ori!" she cried, hugging him fiercely before pulling away. "Where are the others? What happened?"

"It's just me, out of our kin," said Ori, a little uncertainly. "But I'm not alone." He glanced over his shoulder, and Esme followed his gaze to Glorfindel, who stood by the gate.

And then Esme saw who was behind Glorfindel, and her mouth dropped open in shock.

Ori had not been lying when he said a few more elves.

Standing on the little dirt road outside Esmeralda Took's family home, and stretching all the way back into the village were rows upon rows of fully armed, fully armoured elves – at least a hundred or so.

It was a small army. A small army of elves. In Hobbiton.

She fought against rubbing her eyes – she was dreaming, she had to be dreaming –

But then she heard Saradoc's breathless laugh, heard Paladin's whispered prayer as they walked out behind her.

"Good morning Esmeralda, Saradoc, Paladin," said Glorfindel, bowing with a small, bittersweet smile. "We have much to talk about, and much to do, I am sure."

"What – what," she breathed, but her words did not seem to want to form and she looked at Ori. He shrugged a little, smiling somewhat sheepishly. She took a deep breath, and tried again. "What is this?"

"This is all that is left of the army of Imladris," said Glorfindel, "save those needed to guard the valley. And, my dear lady, we are at your service."


	92. Chapter 92: The Sons of the Steward

**Chapter Ninety-Two: The Sons of the Steward**

His brother was alive.

That was the thought that kept whirring through Faramir's weary mind, the wonder that let him continue to cling to consciousness. Boromir was not dead, not even hurt – he was home. Though his vision was hazy, and his head swam, Faramir did not dare close his eyes. Not again. He wanted to soak up the sight of his brother forever, he wanted to just sit and be with Boromir beside him.

But it was not Boromir to whom Faramir owed his life. Not this time. This time, Faramir had been saved by the small, scared little hobbit now cradled in Boromir's lap.

If it were not for Pippin, Faramir would have let go. He almost had – he remembered, and he felt it, deep within his soul. He had been trapped in an endless slumber, drowning in a darkness to which he could see no end, and he had lost everything. His brother was gone, and his father's love was gone, and his hope was gone, and he had no strength to fight for a world without Boromir, or a world without hope.

And then he had heard a voice. He could make out no words, but the voice itself was gentle and kind, and cheerful, cheerful, in a time where cheer could do nothing more than shrivel and die. But the cheer did not die – it continued, and the voice's meaningless monologue carried on, and Faramir had felt hope. Hope for his city, for his people, for the world.

And when that hope kindled within him, Faramir decided that he did not want to die. He wanted to live, and to grow, to fall in love and to settle down, to read until he became cross-eyed, to eat, and drink, and laugh, and cry. He wanted a life, and with the hope from the strange little voice, he fought for it.

For the first time in his life, Faramir fought for himself.

When he woke, he discovered that the voice belonged to a hobbit, and as Peregrin Took introduced himself, almost at once Faramir's muddled mind took him to Nelly. Happy as a child with a cupcake, Pippin chattered away about how relieved he was to find out his sister was alright, and how happy he was to see Faramir awake.

And he had said that Boromir was alive. That it was but a lie that had reached Gondor, a lie and a broken horn, but Faramir had not believed him. He had not had the strength to believe him. Not until he saw Boromir for himself. The joy that had swelled within his chest at the sight of his brother had taken Faramir's breath away.

Though joy had not lingered long in the room. Helplessly, Faramir had watched Boromir tell Pippin that another hobbit had been injured – one by the name of Merry. Frodo had always mentioned Merry and Pippin in the same breath, described them as closer than brothers. From the way that Pippin wailed, Faramir knew that Merry was to Pippin what Boromir was to him, and his heart ached for the little folk, and for his brother. Boromir was stricken – Faramir could see it all over his face.

Now, they were waiting. Boromir was still sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand still holding Faramir's. Pippin was still sitting in his lap, biting at the skin around his fingernails.

And then someone knocked at the door.

Boromir jumped, and the hobbit tumbled out of his lap and sprang to his feet, and Faramir turned his head towards the door.

"Enter," called Boromir, his voice ragged and tense.

The door eased open, and a sense of relief and calm washed over Faramir as Gandalf stepped inside. Unlike the last time that Faramir had seen him, the wizard was clad in white, right down to his beard, through at present his robes were smeared with dirt, and with blood both red and black. As soon as his eyes met Faramir's, the wizard smiled widely, bowed his head.

"Boromir, Faramir, Pippin," he greeted, bowing his head at each of them in turn before looking straight back at Faramir as he strode across the room. "It is good to see you awake and alert at last, Faramir. You had us all rather worried."

Faramir twitched the side of his mouth up into what semblance of a smile he could manage. "Thank you…" His voice still sounded almost silent, weak, even in his own ears, but Gandalf heard him, and bowed his head. Then, he turned to Boromir and Pippin. "Now, my fine fellows, are either of you harmed at all?"

"No, no," said Boromir dismissively, as Pippin shook his head.

"Gandalf," choked the hobbit, "Merry-"

"I have just come from his bedside," said Gandalf gently, crouching down to Pippin in the eye, and taking the hobbit's hands in his own. "You may see him soon – very soon. He is going to be just fine."

"Fine?" whimpered Pippin incredulously. Even from his bed, Faramir could see the hobbit shivering, and a surge of sympathy and sorrow rose within him. "Gandalf, Boromir said he was stabbed-"

"He was, but Boromir treated the wound well at the sight," said Gandalf, and a spark of pride brought another twitching half-smile to Faramir's lips. "There was little more for the healers to do, but stitch him up. What's more, I performed a little spell myself – we need not worry about the wound getting infected, and if I'm not mistaken, he should find that it heals much quicker than most wounds of that ilk. The healers are applying new dressings now, and when they are finished, you may go in and be by his side."

Pippin gave a little whimper, and the strength seemed to eke out of him entirely. He slumped forward into the wizard's arms, and to Faramir's mild surprise, Gandalf's arms wrapped around him at once. Denethor had always instructed Faramir and Boromir to view the wizard with a wary respect, and had ever said that he was an ally, and not a friend, but that was clearly not the hobbit's view. Faramir did not think it was his own view, either, or Boromir's, from the look on his brother's face.

"What of his arm, Gandalf?" asked Boromir tightly.

The wizard inclined his head, a small, weary smile on his face. "Aragorn has cared for it as well as even I could – I don't doubt that any save perhaps Elrond, or the Lady Estë herself could do better. It may yet be a day or two before he wakes, but he will not pass into the shadow. He is free of the witch-king now. Indeed, we all are."

Faramir blinked, though his brother's gasp more aptly described his surprise.

"The witch-king?" Boromir breathed. "Merry took down the lord of the Nazgûl?"

"Indeed." Gandalf gave a grim, proud smile. "With the knife he found in the Barrow Downs, scarce miles from his own Shire, he struck the blow that brought the Witch-King to his knees, and Éowyn delivered the final strike. They did very well indeed."

"But, but he's going to be alright?" begged Pippin, seemingly uncaring as to who the Witch-King was, or why it mattered that he was gone. "I, I can see him soon?"

"Very soon," promised Gandalf. "But before you do, there are a couple of things that we must discuss."

"Discuss?" echoed Pippin, his voice uneasy, and Faramir caught sight of the beginnings of a scowl on his brother's face.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Boromir sighed. "Can't it wait, Gandalf?"

"No, unfortunately it cannot," said the wizard, his voice grave. "It is a matter of importance and urgency, and one that will undoubtedly unsettle the entire city – if not the whole realm of Gondor – if it is not resolved quickly and quietly. Though I hate to do so, it will require my asking questions of both Pippin and Faramir."

Faramir raised his eyebrows slightly, wondering whether the wizard was referring to Frodo's quest, or perhaps wondering about the forces that had overtaken Osgiliath, but he doubted he could be much help in either case.

"Faramir?" Boromir's cheeks flamed red, and he threw out his arm towards his startled brother. "Gandalf, he is barely conscious! For pity's sake, leave him be, leave them both be!"

"It's… alright," mumbled Faramir, glancing at Gandalf and blinking until the haze was gone from his eyes. "I want… to help."

"No, it's not alright," said Boromir hotly.

"You're quite right," replied the wizard. "It is not alright, and it's not fair. You have been through far too much for me to ask this of you now, both of you. I do not wish to do so, but I must. If we could wait safely, nothing could move me to demand your time now. Come, Boromir – they need your support, not your fury. I will not take a single moment longer than I must."

Boromir glanced at Faramir, who gave a little nod, smiling as comfortingly as he could when Boromir shook his head.

"Make it quick," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. Faramir's little smile gained a little strength – Boromir had done that ever since they were children.

"Of course," Gandalf murmured, patting Pippin on the shoulder and then stepping closer to the bed. "I must start with you, my dear Faramir – how are you feeling?"

Faramir considered that for a moment. How was he feeling? There was pain, certainly, mainly in his back, and there was also an uneasy churning in his stomach and an ache in his head. But more than the pain, Faramir felt exhausted. Each one of his limbs felt heavier than an anvil, and his mind kept trying to tug him back towards sleep. Still, above all this, Faramir felt breathtakingly grateful. He was still here, and so was Boromir, and their city had been saved.

In the end, he settled on the simplest explanation he could offer. "Alive."

Gandalf smiled sadly, and Boromir squeezed his hand. Slowly, Faramir's leaden fingers entwined around his brothers.

"Now, please know I would not ask you this if it were not utterly necessary," said Gandalf, and Boromir's shifted uncomfortably. "Do you remember what happened when your father sent you to Osgiliath?"

Faramir felt like the wizard had thrown a bucket of icy water over him, and he felt the sting of tears in his eyes. He looked to Boromir, but only for a second. Then he closed his eyes, and turned his head away.

If Boromir knew what had been said, he would never look at Denethor in the same way again. If Boromir knew, it would be like losing his father, and Faramir could not do that.

"You… you shouldn' hear this," he murmured, tightening his grip on Boromir's fingers, and then trying to push him away. "You – you-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Boromir said firmly, encasing Faramir's hands in his. "Speak, brother, and I will listen."

Faramir shook his head slightly, and felt his lips shaking. "It… it will break you, brother…"

" _You_ won't," promised Boromir quietly, and a lump grew in Faramir's throat. He opened his eyes to find that a mist of tears had replaced the haze of fatigue, and he blinked. "Tell me," Boromir murmured, "Please."

A tear broke free, winding its way down Faramir's cheek, and he took a deep breath. "He… he was angry. Angry that I… let Frodo go…"

"Frodo?" cried Boromir, jolting with a shock so sudden that Pippin jumped half a foot in the air. "When did- how-"

"Ithilien," mumbled Faramir. "We met… in Ithilien… They are going, going to Cirith Ungol… Frodo, and Sam… and Nelly, and Bróin… and their warg, and Gollum."

"They – what?" stuttered Boromir, and Gandalf smiled slightly.

"Rion has told us what you spoke of with Frodo, Faramir," he said. "The details of that exchange can wait a little longer. What of your father?"

No matter how much of a haze there was in his mind, the memory of his father's words was sharp as a razor, and Faramir flinched away from its sting. Boromir stared down at him for a moment, but then his face crumpled, and he turned away.

"Gandalf, do we really have to do this now?" he pleaded.

With a voice almost as sorrowful as his face, Gandalf murmured, "What did he say, Faramir?"

"That…" Faramir closed his eyes. He could not look at Boromir, not now. "That I was a traitor… a fool… that – that I was… a coward. A – a boy came… from Osgiliath… interrupted – he, he was angry… Father. He was angry… the boy said, said we must… must retreat… said it, it was hopeless… but Father… Father sent me… to reclaim the river. He – he said if… if I did not… that I should not return…"

He heard Boromir groan, felt his brother's fingers grow painfully tight around his own.

"Anything else?" Gandalf asked quietly.

Faramir squeezed his eyes shut tighter. The words buzzed behind his lips, words of sorrow and shame, words that he knew would tear his brother's heart into pieces.

"Faramir?" Boromir whispered, but his voice was more like a whimper.

 _"Boromir," Faramir whimpered, tugging on his brother's sleeve. "Boromir, where is Mama? Why is Father so angry? When is Mama coming back?"_

 _Boromir sobbed, and wrapped his arms tightly around Faramir. "Mama… Mama isn't coming back, Faramir. Mama's gone."_

Boromir had been ten years old, and he had been the one to tell Faramir that their mother was dead. He could not have wanted to, he could not have ever wanted to say those words, but he did.

"He…" Faramir whispered, the words like acid on his lips. "He wished that I had died… and Boromir had lived."

Boromir made a small sound like a man struck in the gut with an axe, and Faramir winced. He had not thought anything could ever feel worse than those words when he heard them, but repeating them to his brother cut him to the core.

"No…" Boromir's voice was quiet and broken, more vulnerable than the mewl of a wounded kitten. "No, no…"

Faramir pressed his face against the pillow.

"I am sorry, Faramir," said Gandalf softly. "You have done nothing to deserve such disloyalty. Please, if you can, I need to know only a little more. When you reached Osgiliath, what did you decide?"

Disloyalty… was it really his father who had been disloyal? It was Faramir, after all, who broke his father's orders. Faramir who acted on a judgement he knew that his father would condemn.

Then again, it was also Faramir who had been sentenced to die.

"There… there were good, good people there," he breathed, opening his eyes and meeting Gandalf's eyes once more. The exhaustion was growing stronger – it was getting harder to speak once more. "Good men… loyal… hopeless… I didn't… didn't want to let… let them die… I ordered, ordered a retreat… We set charges, in the city, we… we ran. I saw… saw Rion stumble… The arrows, aiming – P-Pippin says she's alright?"

Gandalf smiled sadly. "She carried you herself, until I reached you, and she stood guard over your room until Pippin relieved her. She was not uninjured, certainly, but last I saw she was well enough to fight in the battle."

Faramir's stomach twisted tightly. "Has… has anyone… seen her… since?"

Boromir looked up at Gandalf sharply, and the wizard's face darkened. Faramir heard Pippin give a small moan.

"I will send someone to look for her, the moment I leave this room," Gandalf promised, and Faramir nodded weakly.

"Thank you…"

"And I am deeply sorry to have made you recall this, Faramir. I would not, if it were not vital for understanding your father's state of mind," said the wizard. "As is what happened in this room during the battle. Pippin?"

Faramir frowned slightly, his eyes sliding over to Pippin. The hobbit had a hand on Boromir's knee, but his eyes were brimming with worry. He had not mentioned anything about something happening in the room during the battle, and neither had Beregond. They had only said that the battle was over, and that they would let the healers know that he had woken.

"Well," said Pippin slowly, removing his hand from Boromir's knee and stepping back a little. "Um… Lord Denethor came in and, and he sounded – he was saying things that were insane he, he sounded like he had lost his mind and he – he got a little worked up and hit his head."

"Indeed?" Gandalf raised his eyebrows. "That is the report I was given by Captain Daeron. But I was also sought out by a soldier called Beregond. He said that you might _recall_ something different."

Pippin stiffened, and he looked up, flickering fearful eyes between Gandalf and Boromir. "No," he said, too quickly. "No, I don't."

"Pippin," said Gandalf, in a tone of warning much like that of a parent. "Come, you know you have no enemies in this room. Tell us what happened. We will protect you."

Pippin looked from Gandalf to Boromir, his mouth agape and brow furrowed anxiously. "They… they said that what I'd done… that if anyone found out, your law would demand my head."

Bewildered, Faramir glanced at his brother. Boromir was trembling, and his jaw was set in a tight line. There was a fury growing within him, a strong one, and a surge of pity rose in Faramir's heart.

When he spoke, Boromir's voice was almost a growl. "No one will take your head, Pippin. If they try, I will take theirs, I swear it. What happened? Pippin?!"

The hobbit winced, and glanced at Faramir. Then he gave a heavy sigh, and hung his head. "I… I was guarding Faramir. Like you told me, Gandalf. Then, Lord Denethor came in. He looked – he looked _awful._ He was pale and his eyes… there was… there was a _madness_ his eyes. There were guards with him, six of them, and, and he commanded them to take Faramir. So, I asked where they were taking him, I, I said that the healers said he needed rest. And Lord Denethor, he… he said that Faramir was dead, that his 'sons were spent' and that… that there would be no tomb for Faramir. He said that they would burn, and 'so cheat Mordor, and Gandalf, and the Dúnedain' – he, he kept ranting about Aragorn and… and I wouldn't let them take him. Faramir, I mean. Because he's not dead, but they didn't, they didn't believe me!"

Faramir's stomach curled with a new wave of fear and pain, and he tightened his grip on Boromir's hand. "He… he wanted to… to _burn_ me?"

Pippin nodded anxiously. "Well, in his defence he did think you were dead, and he did want to burn himself too, but… yes. He ordered the guards to take you away, so… so… I drew my sword. Lord Denethor, he, he told the guards to kill me, to get rid of me, but I, I tried to talk some sense into them and that didn't work, but it did make him even more angry and he lunged at me – so I, uh… I might have conked him on the head."

For a moment, the seething rage in Boromir's eyes was replaced by surprise. "You did what?"

"I hit him," Pippin confessed, with an expression that would look adorably sheepish if it was not so terrified. "With the hilt of my sword, three times. Until he stopped coming at me. Of course, then the guards got really mad and they _still_ didn't listen and drew their swords and when I tried to say that Denethor had gone mad the one called Amrod wanted to, to take my _tongue_ and-"

"He _what?"_ snarled Boromir.

"Let him finish," said Gandalf gravely. "Go on, Pippin."

Pippin winced, but nodded. "They said it was Attempted Murder, and I, I tried to say that Boromir was coming back and he'd be angry, and that you'd be angry, Gandalf, but that just made Amrod angrier and he said I was threatening them and he, he wanted to kill me himself, I know he did, and Daeron told me not to make things any harder and he pointed his sword at my chest – I didn't, I didn't want to hurt anyone, but I – I was surrounded and outnumbered and they, they were going to kill me."

Boromir's hands pulled away from Faramir's and tightened into fists, and Faramir could feel his brother trembling. Standing up, the older son of Denethor strode towards the window, his back to Gandalf, and Pippin, and Faramir.

"It, it was Beregond that stopped them," said Pippin, sounding utterly dejected. "He saved my life – he stood in front of me and said it was wrong. Amrod argued something about orders being orders, and the duty of a soldier, but Beregond stood his ground and their swords collided, but Daeron… Daeron called them to stop. He said that he, he didn't think I deserved to die, and that he didn't 'recall' any laws being broken. He, he said if anyone found out then Beregond and I would be killed and the others all banished and then, then they locked Denethor up and left to join the battle. They left Beregond here with me. That's… that's what happened."

There was a loud, angry thud, and the sound of the splintering of wood as Boromir smashed his fist against the window frame. "Amrod will pay-"

"Boromir," said Gandalf sharply. "He was following orders."

"He was too stupid to use his own two eyes!" Boromir yelled, whirling around with eyes that blazed with fury. He looked half mad himself, and Faramir's ribs tightened painfully around his heart. "Did you not hear? What if Pippin was a second slower? What if we were now talking to his _corpse_ , to my brother's ashes? He will pay for his threats and for his stupidity, I swear it!"

"He is not the problem, Boromir. Please, sit down," said Gandalf, gesturing to the bed. "You know he is not to blame."

"He is not blameless," growled Boromir, and the wizard nodded.

"No, he is not, but he is secondary. We can worry about Amrod later – Pippin and Faramir are safe now."

Faramir could see Boromir's lip trembling, and he closed his eyes. His brother's world was falling apart around him, and Faramir hated it. Boromir had always adored their father, even if he loathed the way Faramir was treated. His city and his people were everything to Boromir, and his loyalty to them was rivalled only by the love of his family. But that family was broken, and the city was battered, and Boromir was standing right in the middle of the ruins. Faramir wanted to throw his arms around his brother, to hold him close until it was all alright, to promise that none of this was his fault, but he barely had the strength to string a sentence together.

So, he did what he could, and raised a trembling hand towards his brother.

With a sob of anguish and fury, Boromir strode back across the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking Faramir's hand, pressing it against his mouth for a moment, before holding it over his heart.

"Now," said Gandalf softly. "I believe that Lord Denethor has been using a Palantir, much like the one you got your hands upon, Master Took. My guess is that he was using it with some minor level of success, until the news came of Boromir's death. I suspect that Sauron used your father's grief to pour images of the doom of Gondor into his mind, and that that was instrumental to his fall – instrumental, but not wholly responsible. What must be decided now is what to do. If we announce that the Steward has been injured during the course of the battle – which is not untrue, mind you – you, Boromir, will become acting Steward. However, if the first thing you do is announce the return of the King…"

"It may look like I have played a part in usurping the Steward," said Boromir. His voice was shaking.

"Indeed. I would advise you to take the role of acting Steward at once, and welcome Aragorn officially in the capacity of a visiting chieftain. That should buy us a little more time," said Gandalf, and Boromir nodded, but then he froze, and turned his head slowly towards the wizard.

"Did you make Faramir and Pippin say all of this here _, now,_ just so that I would take the acting stewardship?" Boromir asked quietly, in a voice more dangerous than an avalanche.

Gandalf stared at Boromir for a long moment before replying. "It was essential to hear what they had to say in order to understand the extent of Denethor's madness, and to establish whether or not the fact that he is currently bound to a bed three rooms down the hall is justified. We might have won the battle, but the war is far from over – we cannot afford for the kingdom to fall into political turmoil. If it does, the world is doomed."

A cold, hollow laugh broke from Boromir's throat and he shook his head slightly, dropping his head into his hands. Faramir tried to gather the strength to say something, anything, that might make his brother feel better, but before he could Pippin stepped forward, and put a hand on Boromir's knee.

"I'm sorry, Boromir," he murmured sincerely. "It, it'll be alright, you know, I, I'm sure it'll be alright… I'm sorry."

At once, Boromir surged forward, pulling Pippin into a tight hug and resting his chin on the hobbit's head. "You have nothing to apologise for, my friend," he murmured. "Nothing. I'm sure the Steward deserved far more than a conk on the head."

Pippin gave a small laugh, and Faramir saw his arms wrap tighter around Boromir. A strange sense of warmth grew in Faramir's heart – he had never heard his brother use that tone before, that gentle, patient tone – unless he was talking to Faramir himself. Boromir did not just see these hobbits as friends. He saw them as little brothers. Faramir smiled.

There was a soft knock on the door, and a dwarf popped his head around the door. He looked utterly exhausted, but he was smiling a little.

"Sorry to interrupt," he said, as Pippin gave a cry and flew out of Boromir's lap, vaulting into the dwarf's arms. "Pippin!" the dwarf choked, squeezing the hobbit tightly. "I'm so glad you're alright, oh it's good to see you. They've just finished bandaging Merry up, I've come to take you to him. Whether Gandalf's done with you all not."

Pippin nodded frantically, and the wizard laughed.

"Very well, Gimli. I wouldn't want to keep them apart any longer."

The dwarf bowed his head, and smiled slightly at Boromir. "Thank you."

"Anytime," said Boromir sincerely. "I mean it. I will be in to see him in a minute."

Gimli nodded, and gave an awkward half wave to Faramir, who gave a little nod back. Then, the dwarf took the hobbit by the arm and marched him from the room.

"I will go and track down Master Rion," said Gandalf, putting a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "If we are to prevent the collapse of this kingdom, you should claim the stewardship within the hour, but for now, I will leave you two alone." With that, he bowed, and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Boromir drew a deep, shuddering breath, and dropped his head into his hands. Faramir wanted to say something, but he was too tired. He could not think of a single thing to say that would help, and exhaustion's grip was growing stronger by the minute. His eyelids began to flutter, but he did not dare close them. Every time he did, he grew terrified that he was dreaming.

"I am sorry, Faramir," groaned Boromir, without raising his face. "I'm so sorry."

Faramir gave a sad smile. "You have…. Nothing… to be sorry for…"

"I do," said Boromir. "No, I do, Faramir, I – I have made excuses for that man for far too long. I, I knew what he was doing but I, I pretended that it was not so deep, not so dark, I – I should have said something. I should have said something sooner."

"You did."

"Not enough." Boromir raised his face, and he looked as though he had aged fifty years in the last five minutes. "I did not say enough. If I had, had not been so blind then…"

"Father-"

"Don't call him that," Boromir said sharply, though his words were laced with tears. "No father would do what he did to you, and if he is not you father then he is not mine either. Many things I could forgive him for, but not this. Never this."

Faramir felt the heat of tears on his cheeks. "I didn't… didn't want you to lose… him."

"I did not lose him," said Boromir, leaning forward and rubbing his thumb over Faramir's cheek, the way that they had when they were children. "He betrayed us, and that will cost him everything. He will never hurt you again, Faramir, I swear it. Never. I am here now, and my eyes are open."

Faramir nodded slightly, wrapping his fingers around Boromir's wrist. "I – I miss him," he confessed. "I miss how he was… how he was before Mama died."

"Me too," whispered Boromir, his eyes tight with pain, but he brushed Faramir's hair back from his face and spoke firmly. "But that man is gone. And Denethor will pay for what he has done."

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought of these ones, I love your feedback!**

 **Until next time, do take care, and thank you for reading.**


	93. Chapter 93: The Edge of Night

**Hello all! Sorry for the long delay here, it's been a busy and rather difficult few weeks. Anyhow, I'm back now, just with one chapter I'm afraid. I hope that you enjoy it, and please do forgive any silly typos that I've missed.**

 **Chapter Ninety-Three: The Edge of Night**

Mordor was even worse in the night-time. The dark had swept down and stolen what pale light day had leant to the land, and with it had come the cold – a chill that bit through to your bones, and left the stifling, stuffy heat of the day a distant memory. Nelly and Sam had covered Bróin and Frodo with capes and blankets, keeping only the thinnest cloaks for themselves, but Bróin still shivered. He was not sure if it was incessant cold, or the lingering fear, or the swirl of sickness in his gut, but it was something. Sam point blank forbade Bróin or Frodo from taking a watch that night, but Bróin was awake much for much of it anyway. His stomach was churning violently, his guts writhing as though caught in the midst of a fever, and every few minutes, he felt an urge to vomit rise within him. Every few minutes he ignored it, clamping his mouth shut and dropping his head onto his knees.

Sam watched from the mouth of the cave, so Bróin managed to keep his suffering a secret, but when the weary hobbit woke Nelly for her turn, Bróin did not have even a chance to hide. She did not watch from the edge, instead sitting up beside Bróin and weaving her arms around him, guiding his head down onto her shoulder.

"Sleep, Bróin," she murmured. "It's alright now. You're safe. I'm here."

She kept whispering to him, murmuring comfort after comfort until he was slowly pulled into sleep, but it was less than four hours later that she woke him up, and told him that it was probably time to move on.

"If you and Frodo are feeling well enough. I don't think we should stay here any longer than we must. They're bound to be looking for you two by now."

Bróin shuddered violently at the thought of that, and Nelly pulled him close again, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

"I said looking, not finding. They won't find you," she murmured, smiling a little, but when she reached up to brush Bróin's hair from his forehead she frowned. "Bróin, are you feeling alright?"

He pulled his face into a smile, ignoring the flaring of the nausea and the growing ache in his head. "Fine," he said, wincing a little as the word caught in his throat. He added a sore throat to the list of maladies he would keep hidden inside him.

"You're very warm," she said, pressing her the back of her fingers against his forehead with a frown. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, trying not to wince as the movement hurt. "Let's just go," he rasped, wincing again at the sound of his voice. He had hoped it would be better in the morning, that sleeping would have taken away some of the lingering pain the orcs had left him with, but it felt like someone had filled the inside of his neck with a bucket of coarse sand.

"Not before you eat and drink," said Sam firmly, and Bróin's stomach clenched at the thought. He fought back a gag and shook his head slightly.

"I'm not hungry," he said – too quickly. The others turned to look at him, concern in their eyes, and he dragged a smile onto his face. "My throat hurts."

"Well, you should still eat a little something," said Nelly, passing him a small pouch. "These are the last of Faramir's berries. They're a little softer."

Bróin wanted to refuse, but doing so would make the others worry, so he took the berries and nibbled on them slowly. He was half-sure that he could feel them swimming through his stomach, egging the nausea on, but he ignored it. He ate a little bread, too, to stop Nelly from worrying, and barely winced when cramps began seizing through his stomach. When she passed him the water, he sipped at it without flinching, and tried to pretend that it was soothing and sweet, and not making everything worse.

"You and Frodo can ride Toothy for now, Bróin," said Nelly, finally putting the bottle away. "We'll move much faster that way. Come on…"

Taking her hand, Bróin struggled to his feet, ignoring the sway of his stomach, and they crept out of the cave and into the dull cold light of morning. In a few hours, Bróin guessed, Mordor would become hot, and horribly so, but for now it was still cold. Cold and grim and grey. Toothy gave an odd, contented sort of growl when he saw Bróin, nuzzling the dwarf's neck and licking his chin, and Bróin smiled weakly.

"Morning," he murmured. "Good boy…" Even as the swoop of his gut and the pain in his head grew worse, the fact that Toothy had followed after them sent a surge of happiness through Bróin's heart. Sam helped Frodo up onto Toothy's back, and then Bróin clambered up behind him. He closed his eyes.

"Alright," Sam murmured. "The coast is clear. Let's go."

Nelly led the way, setting off at a brisk, silent jog, and Toothy followed, his loping movements doing nothing to improve how Bróin felt. He could hear the light jangling of Sam's cookware as the hobbit jogged along behind them, and he could hear Toothy's almost guttural panting, but around them all else was quiet.

They did not speak. They did not dare. Instead they hurried along in silence, as fast as they could, and the speed did nothing to help the nausea rising higher and higher in his chest. He clenched his jaw and closed his eyes, hanging his head and trying to pretend that everything was alright.

 _He was home, he was safe, and yes, he was sick, but the swaying beneath him was not a warg, it was his Ama, cradling him in her lap and rocking him back and forth. There was not silence around him – Ama was singing a lullaby, and he could hear Ada humming along in the background._

Bróin felt tears begin to build beneath his eyelids, and he clenched his jaw tighter. He was beginning to wonder what would happen if he never returned, how his parents would react to the news that he was dead. It felt like lifetime ago that he had spoken to Boromir in Moria, confessed that his parents had his brothers and sisters to soften the blow if he passed. He did not want his parents to mourn, and by no means did he want them to be in pain, but the idea that they would not miss him for long, that they would find comfort in his being a spare – it hurt worse than his head and his throat and his stomach put together. It was worse than imagining them screaming and wailing, worse than imagining them fainting or losing weight – worse than the thought of anything but their deaths.

But then a thought even worse than _that_ took Bróin's breath away.

What if they could not take comfort in Bróin's siblings because he was not the only one gone? In Lothlórien, Galadriel claimed Glorfindel was certain Bofin would survive, but she had also said he was severely injured. If something that gone wrong, if the elves could not heal him – if his brother was gone and his parents and lost their firstborn –

And Saruman had sent orcs to the Shire – if Orla and Ola and Bodin were captured, if –

A thrill of cold flooded over him, and his hand clenched over his gut.

If his little siblings were dead already -

He bit back a sob, clenching his teeth. Through his nose, he dragged in a deep breath, trying desperately to grapple for a sense of calm, or an ounce of hope. All he could think of was that his youngest three siblings were still safe, were still home. He thought of Bolin, who had been so bitterly disappointed when he discovered that his broken leg would keep him in Erebor, and Bowin and Olin, who were so young that they probably would not remember Bróin if he never came home.

The sickness rose higher in Bróin's stomach, pressing up against his chest and his lungs, and he shoved his arm against himself tighter.

 _Come on, Bróin,_ he thought, _keep it together. Keep it together_.

He breathed in again, slowly, and let his eyes open. They were beginning to make their way down the mountain and into Mordor, but it did not look like they were following any road. Instead, Nelly and Sam seemed to be tracking their own winding path between the fierce rocks and crags of the mountainside.

 _Because the whole tower of Cirith Ungol is out looking for you. They'll find you, and drag you back, and this time when they hold your head under water you won't come up again._

Bróin's stomach seized violently, the new pain so sudden and fierce that he doubled over, hitting his head against Frodo's back. A cloud of darkness bloomed before Bróin's eyes as the nausea rose up his chest, up his neck, and he clamped a hand over his mouth -

"Bróin? Bróin!" whispered Frodo frantically, twisting around and grabbing at Bróin's wrists. "What's wrong?"

Bróin gagged, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his hand against his mouth so tightly that he could feel his teeth through his lips. His whole body was shuddering violently, and his insides felt ready to tear themselves apart. He clenched his teeth together, tried not to even breathe, and he felt himself slump further forward.

"Bróin! What's happening? Bróin?" Nelly's urgent voice was quiet as a sleep-sigh, but her fear rang loud as thunder in Bróin's ears, and he felt her strong arms wrap around him, pulling him down from Toothy's back. "Bróin-"

His knees hit the dirt and Bróin choked, and then he felt the burn of bile rise higher, and his palms smacked down onto the sharp stone, like a beast on all fours.

"What's going on?" Sam cried, and as he did, Bróin lurched forward.

Black vomit poured from his mouth, relentless, ceaseless, and when his lungs begged for air it still did not stop. Terror wracked through him, and he tried to gasp down some air, but he choked and gagged, and his body jerked and spasmed, and then the stuff began to stream out of his nose as well.

"What's happened to him? What happened, Frodo?" Nelly begged frantically, and Bróin felt her arms tighten around his chest, holding him up as his own elbows buckled.

For a moment, the vomiting stopped, and Bróin dragged in a few haggard breaths, but then he felt it rise again, and he barely had time to sob before it overtook him. Trembling, sweaty hands pressed against his forehead, pulling his hair away from his face, and Nelly's arms continued to hold him upright until the horror stopped with a last, shuddering jerk.

For a moment, he did not dare to breathe, but when his lungs wailed, he sucked in a little air, a sob of relief breaking from him when the vomit failed to follow.

"Is it over?" whispered Sam, his face paler than white moonstone. "Is – is it?"

"Bróin…" Nelly's voice cracked on her lips like a sob, and he felt her arms trembling around him. He wrenched in another gasp of air, not daring to even try to speak, and he felt himself sink down towards the ground. At once, Nelly's grip shifted, and she pulled him gently towards her, resting his back against her chest, and wrapping her arms around him. His head lolling to the side, Bróin tried with all his might just to keep breathing, as Nelly turned to the others. "Frodo, what happened to him?"

"They – they held him so long," sobbed Frodo, and the raw pain in his eyes was too much for Bróin to bear. He closed his eyes, trying not to sob himself as Frodo continued. "Underwater. They held his head underwater, for so long… I – I thought he…"

Bróin remembered the black water flooding into his lungs and he shuddered, whimpering when his stomach fluttered. He could hear Sam sniffing, hear the pain clinging to the whisper of Nelly's voice.

"They… they drowned him?"

Wincing, Bróin grappled for Nelly's hand, squeezing it with what little strength he had. He felt her jump, felt her squeeze him back.

"Is that – is that what that is?" she asked. "Is that, is that what he…"

"I – I think so," Frodo said, his voice hollow as bone. "The water… it was filthy, it was, it was black and cold and it, it stank and he – he must have swallowed some…"

"So ,what do we do?" demanded Nelly, her fear tightening in her voice. "Frodo, what do we do?"

"I – I don't know, I don't-"

"What do we do?"

Bróin choked, lurching forwards as he gagged once more. This time, he vomited thin black bile, and Nelly rubbed his back and Sam held his hair from his face, and pain seized across Bróin's stomach. After a moment, it dulled slightly, and he fell back against Nelly again. He was panting heavily, choking on every third breath, and he felt tears burn in his eyes as his head lolled back.

He was tired – he was so, so tired. It felt like every ounce of energy within him had left with the contents of his stomach. He coughed, and then drew a deep breath, and coughed again.

"Here," croaked Frodo, holding out a water skein, but Bróin cringed away and Nelly shook her head.

"No, no, it's too soon for water, it'll upset his stomach," she said, her voice wavering.

"Then what do we do? I don't, I don't know what to do," said Frodo, a tear weaving down his cheek. He staggered back against a nearby wall, sinking down to the ground and shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Bróin. I'm sorry."

"Oh, I wish old Bofur was here. He'd know what to do, for certain," said Sam, and Bróin closed his eyes again before the others could see his tears. Yes, he wished Bofur was here too. So, so badly. "If… if there was still water in your stomach, do you… do you think there could still be water in your lungs? It's just, I've heard stories, you see, of folk who got themselves drowned hours after leaving the water, and-"

Bróin whimpered, and Nelly's arms tightened around him. "How'd we get it out, Sam? If there's water in his lungs, how'd we get it out?"

The colour drained from Sam's face, taking with it the strength in his voice. "I… I don't know if you can."

"It's alright," Nelly whispered, her lips so close to Bróin's ear that the hair on the back of his neck stood up. "It's alright, you're going to be fine. I won't, I won't let you drown, Bróin, you're going to be fine."

"If… if it's just the water upsetting his stomach this might be over," said Frodo, his voice void of hope. "But if it's an infection… I don't know what we should-"

Toothy dropped to the ground, growling low and quiet in the back of his throat, and the dwobbits froze, staring at the warg until he fell silent. Then, Bróin heard it – a clanking, stomping and jeering, the sound of orcs on the move – orcs getting closer.

"We have to move!" Sam hissed, springing into action at once. "Frodo, get on Toothy, now!"

"But-"

Sam whirled around with eyes wide and wild, and signed the word _"Now!"_ with such force that Frodo scrambled to his feet, and onto the warg's back.

Scurrying over to Nelly and Bróin, Sam took the dwarf's arm in his. "Help me get him up, Nell. Frodo will hold him, we can run." She hesitated, and Bróin's stomach rolled uncomfortably, but Sam jerked his head towards the sound of the orcs. "If we stay here, we're all dead."

Nelly nodded, rising to her feet and lifting Bróin with her. His gut roiled and his toes curled against the dirt, but he let them pull him up onto Toothy. Frodo's arms locked around him much like Nelly's had, and Bróin closed his eyes.

 _Just be alright,_ he begged his battered body. _Please, just be alright enough to get there and back again. There and back, that's all I ask, please, please, please…_

"I've got you," Frodo murmured, but his voice was hurt and weary, and his arms were already trembling. Bróin could feel the hard metal of the ring pressing into the back of his neck as he lay against the hobbit's chest, and he winced. "I won't let you go. I won't let you go."

And then, for their lives, they ran.

* * *

Boromir was ten years old the first time he heard his father scorn his brother. It was a month to the day after they buried their mother, and one of the servants had served Faramir his dinner on a plate that had been a particular favourite of hers. When he noticed, Faramir had burst into tears, pushing away his food and wailing for his mother. It was not long before Denethor had brought his fist down against the table and snapped at his youngest son to act like a man and keep his tears to himself.

"Look at Boromir," he had growled. "He doesn't weep like some pathetic maiden, does he?"

Boromir still remembered hanging his head, feeling the blush of shame on his cheeks. He did cry, and Faramir knew it. He had cried himself to sleep for the last four nights, and Faramir had been the one to comfort him. The only difference between them was that Boromir knew better than to cry in front of their father.

In hindsight, Boromir had long chalked that moment up to grief, and since then he had made a thousand excuses. Their father was busy, their father was stressed. He did not think about what he was saying, he just wanted Faramir to achieve his best potential. Yes, he could be cold, but he was not uncaring. Faramir was so much like their mother in looks and manner and soul that it must hurt Denethor to look at him sometimes, and that had to be why he was so hard on him. It had to be because Denethor did not want to lose Faramir as he had lost Finduilas.

Except that was not true, and now Boromir knew it.

Madness, that was what Gandalf said, and what Pippin had claimed to see in Denethor's eyes. Perhaps that was true. It would be easier to believe that it was all madness, but Boromir could not make excuses. Not anymore.

Because even if it was madness that had pushed Denethor to act as he had, Boromir knew in his heart that his father had been sure of what he said. He would have traded Faramir's life for Boromir's in the blink of an eye, and he would have done so with all his wits about him.

There was a great, aching pain in Boromir's chest, as though he had been speared by the lance of a cave troll, and he did not know if he wanted to rage or to weep. Maybe both. What he did not want was to face his father – the man who had condemned his brother to die, the man who had ordered the murder of Pippin. The man who had encouraged his every move, had praised any victory. The man who rocked him to sleep after his nightmares.

The man who had betrayed him.

But he had no choice. Whatever Aragorn said, this had to be done now. Now, while the anger and pain still seared through his veins. If it was not done now, Boromir did not know if he would ever have the strength to do it.

He nodded at the guards, determinedly not looking at their faces. If one of them was Amras, Boromir might just strike him. Instead, he waited as they pulled open the door, and then he stepped inside. The room was dim, with but a little light seeping in beneath the curtains, but Boromir could see perfectly clearly. He could see Denethor sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands bound behind him in soft cloth, and then tied to the bedposts. His face was turned away as he glared resolutely towards the covered window, and there was nothing but fury in his eyes.

When Boromir did not speak, Denethor scoffed.

"I have nothing to say to you, wizard, other than that you will burn for your treachery."

"Gandalf has committed no treachery," said Boromir, his heart stumbling as his father froze. "Not against the realm of Gondor, nor the realm of men."

Denethor turned, his face void of all colour and his mouth falling open. He looked almost like a skull, gaping in the darkness, but there was a light in his eyes. A light of joy – and of fear.

"Boromir?" he whispered, raising his bound hands up to rub his eyes. "My son – it cannot be!"

"It is."

Denethor's pallid face broke into an almost crazed grin and he let out a laugh, standing up. "Boromir! My boy, my boy!"

Pain wrenched Boromir's heart into pieces, and he turned his face away. For months, almost a year, he had been yearning to hear his father say that. Waiting, often impatiently, for his family to welcome him home. Even on the battlefield, he had smiled at the thought of finally being able to embrace his father – and his brother.

"I thought you were dead," Denethor whispered, his voice pained and afraid. "Word came from Rohan… oh, my boy, my _boy!"_

Boromir turned back to his father and folded his arms across his chest. The desire to throw his arms around his father and hold him as tightly as he could was growing within him, but so was the desire to punch him in the jaw. When he said nothing, concern pinched at the steward's face.

"Boromir, you must help me!" insisted Denethor urgently. "There is a conspiracy against me, and traitors among our own High Guard who have bound me and left me here – it is a disgrace! They plan to usurp me, to replace me with that ragged ranger, Aragorn! Come, untie me! Gandalf is at their head, the treacherous snake, and has poisoned even Prince Imrahil against me. Thank goodness you've returned. Untie me, Boromir."

The anger within him flared hot, and Boromir breathed in sharply. "Do not lie to me."

Denethor shook his head slightly and blinked. "Lie?"

"Do not lie to me," Boromir repeated, his voice rasping a little. "I know what you have done. I know why you are bound, I know everything!"

"What you've been told – whatever you've been told, it is lies!"

"Stop!" Boromir growled, his voice trembling with the effort not to roar. "I know everything, _everything._ Don't you make me play this game now. Don't you pretend that you've done nothing wrong, don't you… don't you lie to me, too."

Red blotches of anger rose onto Denethor's pallid cheeks, but even as his chest puffed out, his voice sounded more pained than it did furious. "You – you would not hear your father's own words, your father's own account of what happened? You are my son, Boromir, my son, and you, I know are no traitor. What has he done to you? What has the wizard done to you?"

"Tell me then, if you wish me to hear your side," said Boromir, ignoring mention of Gandalf. His father had never trusted the wizard, and Boromir did not have time to go down that road now. "Did you, or did you not tell Faramir to reclaim a fallen city with fifty weary men?"

"I tried to save your brother," spat the Steward. "The Halfling – the Halfling drew his blade and kept him from me, he-"

"Did you, or did you not send Faramir to Osgiliath knowing that it was hopeless?"

Denethor straightened, a scowl descending onto his face. "I will not be interrogated by-"

"Did you?" roared Boromir, satisfaction surging within him as his father flinched. "Did you send my brother to die?"

Silence fell between them, prickly and cold, and when Denethor finally spoke, his voice was even colder. "I did what I thought was best for my city. Faramir betrayed the kingdom, Boromir – he let the Ring of Power potter into Mordor in the hands of a weak, witless halfling. If I were a poor father, I would have had him executed on the spot for his treason. You will listen to me, Boromir- "

"No," Boromir snarled. He could feel his anguish burning behind his eyes, but he did not care anymore. "I have listened to you all my life, and I have made excuses for you… excuses… Now, I speak, and you listen. Faramir did not betray us. You did."

The veins on Denethor's forehead bulged, and anger flamed in his eyes. "What did you-"

"I said _listen!"_ Boromir roared, and Denethor flinched back, his face falling slack with shock. "You will listen to me now – listen as you never have before. Faramir – Faramir did what I could not. He defended our city, protected our people – if the Ring had come to Gondor, our kingdom would fall. No man can wield that thing, but it can destroy a man without ever touching him. I know this better than anyone. It poisoned my heart, took my mind from me, and I – I tried to take it. I attacked a soul I had sworn to protect, and I drew my sword against one of the dearest friends I have ever had. If Frodo was weak, and witless, he would be dead, but he is neither. He is far nobler than any man I have ever met. When I realised what I had done, I was ready to fall on my own sword from the very shame of it, but Frodo – Frodo saw the madness, and he forgave me. I have spent _every_ moment since trying to earn that forgiveness. But Faramir – Faramir did not even try to take it. He has always been brighter, been braver, even if he will never beat me in the sparring ring. Faramir is the strongest of your sons, and he always has been." He broke off, breathing heavily, and Denethor shifted. A look of bitter sorrow twisted onto his face, and he sighed.

"Faramir-"

"I have not finished!" snapped Boromir. "And do not speak his name – not after what you have done. You almost killed him – you knew Osgiliath could not be won with fifty men, and you heard that soldier beg for the order to retreat. You heard the boy _beg_ , and you sent Faramir anyway, you would have preferred to lose both your sons to accepting Faramir as your heir. And you always have. Always. Gandalf believes this to be madness, and Imrahil grief, but you have loathed Faramir since the moment our mother grew ill."

Denethor opened his mouth, but Boromir let out a wild, bark-like sob. He could feel the sting of salt on his cheeks now, and he made no attempt to hide it.

"Don't try to deny it – I have denied it in my heart for the last twenty years, but I know it to be true. I know it's true. You blame him for what happened, but it was the fever that took Mother, not Faramir, and it almost took him too! You look at him as though he murdered her, but he was six years old! Six! And then he committed a crime almost as dark as murder, didn't he? He dared to grow to look like her, to love like her – he dared to be gentle and cautious and calm and you couldn't stand it! That is why you sent him to die. You have not cared for Faramir in twenty years, and I – I could not accept that, because I love you. I loved you, Father, I loved you and defended you, and I was always too afraid to believe that you loathed him. But the minute, the minute it looked like I was dead you sent him to die too! And you cannot claim madness for that. I wish it was madness, I wish it was, but we both know it is not. And that, that I cannot forgive."

He drew a deep breath and turned away, trying to regain some composure. He was trembling like a frightened child, and anger and grief and fear were waging war within his veins.

"Boromir," pleaded the steward, his voice cracked and broken. "Please… you do not understand. I…"

Boromir's lip curled in disgust as his father fell silent, and he spun around. "What? You what, father? Tell me – what is your defence?"

"I have never loathed your brother," said Denethor. Boromir let out a sharp laugh of disbelief, but his father continued. "I only worried – he was so much softer, so much weaker – he always needed the extra push. That was all. I did not loathe him. He is my son, and he is dear to me."

Boromir growled. "I told you not to lie!"

"It is no lie! When I believed him dead, I made to join him – I had no way of knowing he was alive!"

"Oh, yes you did," said Boromir, his entire being trembling with rage. "You knew full well he was alive. Even if you could not see it, if you could not hear the healers, Pippin screamed it at you! He _screamed_ it, and you did not check – you threatened Pippin, ordered him killed! You did not want to join Faramir – you wanted to make sure that I never found out what you had done. But I know. I know."

"The wizard has manipulated you, Boromir, he has not told you the whole truth. You do not understand. Yes, a madness took me, but I fought it off. I fought it alone! When I sent your brother to Osgiliath, I knew nothing but despair. At great cost to myself, I have been spying upon our enemy with one of the great Seeing Stones, but the night before your brother came to me, I was spied myself. You cannot understand… the things he showed me… Doom was upon our people. There would be no escape, not for Gondor. I saw our deaths, the destruction of man. Even I was afraid – the darkness swallowed us whole, and gutted our soldiers one by one. The orcs came down upon our cities and ravaged our women, and ate our children alive, and I saw it. I saw it all."

An eerie horror gazed out of Denethor's eyes, and Boromir swallowed. That, he could believe. That, he could imagine driving someone to madness – but the thread of new hope was thin, and fragile, and Denethor ripped it apart with his next sentence.

"Such horror – it was more than I could ever have imagined, and I… and I thought… I thought that Faramir might have had a chance at glory before-"

With a roar, Boromir turned, letting out his fury on the door fame. The wood splintered beneath his fist as pain blazed across his knuckles, and behind him Denethor fell silent.

"If that is true," snarled Boromir. "Why did you not give him more men, more horses? More importantly, why did you tell him that you wished him dead? Why did you tell him not to come back? The Palantir did not make you say that, or put those words in your mouth. Pippin fell afoul of a Palantir, I have seen how they work – your horror did not make you say those things. You did. Yet still, Faramir forgives you. Faramir, the man you tried to kill, did not want to tell me what you said because he didn't want _me_ to see you differently. But I pushed, and he told me. He told me everything. Because he is loyal, and he is true, and he is _nothing_ like you."

Denethor shook his head slightly, a look that could only be described as terror dawning in his eyes. "Boromir… Boromir _please…_ You're my sons, I love you."

"It's a little too late to claim love now," Boromir growled, but his voice broke, and he pursed his lips, closing his eyes tightly. He took a deep breath, and then turned to his father, staring deep into Denethor's cold, fearful eyes. "Here's what's going to happen now. Due to your abandoning your duties during the crisis of battle, and leaving the defence of the city of Minas Tirith to others, you have already been stripped of your role and title as steward. As your legal heir, that 'honour' now falls to me, and I will ensure that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn is welcomed into our city and onto the throne of Gondor. He has earned it through more than just his birth-right, and if any man can lead our people through the darkness to come. it is him."

"Never!" spat Denethor, anger instantly flashing over his face. "I will not bow to that Ranger from the North!"

"You will bow to him!" Boromir bellowed. "You will bow to him, or you will be banished from Gondor and all its lands until the day you die!" He paused, taking a moment to catch his breath, and then he nodded. "Now – if you wish to live the rest of your days without seeing either of the men you once called sons, you do as you will. Deny Aragorn, denounce Gandalf, sing of our doom to the kingdom. But know that if you do, I will deny and denounce you." It felt as though his own words were tearing Boromir's heart apart, but he let his tears fall and he kept talking. "I have loved you, Father, as any good son would. Defended you. Remained loyal to you. But now you are a threat not only to our family, but to our people. For the safety of us all you will be moved to a secure room as soon as the healers have the space to facilitate it. There you will serve a sentence for your neglect of your duties as steward in battle – or receive treatment for your 'madness.' Whatever the king and council deem fit. But you will not see me or Faramir me until you can find some form of penance to prove to us that you are truly sorry for what it is you have done. And you will have to _prove_ it. Without words. Your words have done damage enough."

Denethor was shaking now, almost like one having a fit, and tears and snot were streaking down his pallid face. "You... you would betray me like that?" he rasped.

A part of Boromir wanted to roar back, but his sorrow was draining his anger away with the speed of the falls of Rauros. He had felt this way only once before – empty, and hopeless, and utterly stricken by grief. The last time, he had been ten years old, and he felt that age again. He felt like a frightened, helpless child, a child losing a parent in front of their eyes.

Only this time, their father was not dying. This time, if he left them forever, it would be of his own volition.

"Mother would be so ashamed of you," he murmured. "Don't accuse me of treason now – you are the one who has betrayed your family. I am going now, Father. Next time we meet, I hope you have found your humility, and lost your madness."

Boromir bowed his head and turned to the door, walking with his hands clasped in front of him so his father would not see them shake.

"No!" yelled Denethor. "Boromir! Get back here! Don't you dare – don't you _dare_ turn your back on me! Boromir! _Boromir!"_

But Boromir, Steward of Gondor, did not look back.

 **Thank you so much for reading this chapter! Please do let me know what you think – I found the Denethor conversation so difficult to write and I'm not sure that I 100% nailed it, so if anyone has any critiques or criticisms please do let me know.**

 **I honestly have no idea when the next chapter will be – ideally next Monday, but with how busy my life is right now there could be another wait on our hands. Until then, thank you for reading, and take care!**


	94. Chapter 94: The Bell Tolls

**Hi all! Thank you for the lovely feedback on the last chapter! Sorry it's been so long, life has been busy! It's really late here for me so I'm really sleepy, so please forgive any typos I've missed, and please enjoy the chapter!**

 **Chapter Ninety-Four: The Bell Tolls**

Nori had never had time for heroics. More often than not, they went against logic, and against sense. He did not see the point in charging face first at your enemy, in laying down your life in a dramatic stand to save strangers. It far better to guard your life with your logic, to stick to the side-lines, keep your head low. Calculate your risks. And never – ever – do anything without a plan.

Ever.

"Nori, are you listening to me?"

Ignoring his brother with ease, Nori adjusted the straps of his bag over his shoulders. He had no plan now, and he knew it would not end well. He knew that without one, he had no chance of getting out alive. He knew everything.

 _"If you reject Saruman's hand, we will bring you the girl's head. Just her head. Wouldn't that make little Bróin sing, watching the rest of her split between the troops for pudding?"_

It did not matter that he was going to die. His little Nelly was captive in Isengard, at the mercy of a treacherous wizard and a hoard of uruk-hai, and he had to do something. He had to try.

He had spent all his life living by his own rules, looking after his own skin, but then twenty years ago a wide-eyed, curly haired bundle of mischief had adopted him as her dwarf, and things had changed. Slowly, at first, but then strongly, and then irrefutably. In fact, though not even Nelly knew it, it was for her that Nori had volunteered to head the City Watch for Thorin, and for her that he built the Watchers into the elite force they had become. It was arguably the greatest work of his life, but it was all little more than an attempt to earn the respect and admiration that shone in her eyes when she looked at him.

Now, Nelly was his closest friend, his biggest confidant – she was the most important person in his life. She was the closest thing to a daughter he was ever going to get, and even if some strange twist of fate blessed him with a child, he could not imagine ever loving anyone more than he loved Nelly.

And now Saruman had her, and he had to do something.

"Nori! I said, are you _listening_ to me?"

"Just because I'm not agreeing with you does not mean I'm not listening," growled Nori, though in truth he had not cared to hear a word. He slammed the draw shut, and shoved the last map into his pack. "Get out of my way, Dori."

"Nori-"

"Move!"

Dori moved, pressing himself against the wall as Nori strode past and flung the bag down against the front door. Without even slowing down, he stormed into his back room and began to arm himself, taking every blade that he could possibly hope to hide on his person.

"Nori."

Ignoring his brother, Nori grabbed his mace, strapping it to a belt that he slung across his back. He raised his hood, and went for the door.

"Nori!"

Nori's nostrils flared at the sight of his brother blocking his own front door, his great arms folded, and a scowl carved into his face.

"I thought I told you to get out of the way," snarled Nori. "Don't try to stop me from leaving, or I swear, Dori, I will hurt you!"

"I'm not going to stop you," said Dori, sounding almost exasperated. "If you'd just _listen_! I _said_ it makes no sense to leave via the Hidden Door and go down the mountain right away. We should climb up to the North Eastern side of the mountain, and then track down through the crags there. They'll offer us cover for a little longer."

A little taken aback, Nori paused, but then he nodded. "Thanks. I'll do that." Dori stepped aside, shaking his head slowly, and Nori wrenched the door open, charging out into the hall. It was almost midnight, and very quiet. The snick of his door locking behind him sounded like the toll of a great bell in the silence.

Without another word, he headed to the Hidden Door. Dori was behind him, no doubt wanting to say an emotional goodbye at the very last moment, and Bofur, Bombur and Marta met him along the way. They huddled into the small side chamber off of the doorway, and before they could share as much as a hello, Thorin loomed in the doorway.

"I know there's probably nothing I can say that will make you change your mind, but please, hear me," said the king, his voice heavy. "To leave like this – this is suicide. The mountain is surrounded, and since you arrived the enemy has doubled their presence. You won't make it to Mirkwood, let alone to Isengard! You know you're of no use to them dead."

"I know," said Bofur, his voice soft and sad. "We know."

"If you just wait a day or two, we could try and find a better plan, give you more of a chance," protested Thorin. "I will not stop you, Nori, but if you just wait-"

"I'll give the scum a head-start back home, and Nelly's good as dead,' snapped Nori. "There's no time."

"Who will save her if you fall, Nori? Who will save her then?"

Nori paused, turning slowly to face his king. "Are you telling me you wouldn't even try?"

Thorin shook his head. "Only that you have more chance than any of us to get them back, and that chance will be even greater if you just wait."

According to Nori's own rules, Thorin was right. It was always better to wait, to plan, to be careful. But if he waited too long…

"I can't," he said quietly. "If you want to wait, and set out after me, go for your life," he added to Bofur. "I'm out of here."

Thorin bowed his head. "Very well. I wish you all the luck that this world can hold."

"I – I should," stammered Bombur, but Bofur shook his head, squeezing his brother's arms.

"No. Your little ones need you here, and this… well, even if we get there in one piece, we won't be back for a while. It'd make more sense to double back to the Shire, or the Blue Mountains, even. That's too long for you to be away, Bombur, but I'll find him, if he can be found."

Nori shifted, giving his friends a little privacy and turning to his own brother gruffly. "A'ight. I'll see you on the other side, then."

Dori's nostrils flared, and he huffed angrily. "For the love of… will you never listen? I'm coming with you."

Nori felt his eyes bulge. "You - no-"

"Don't bother arguing, Nori, it's just a waste of time. And somebody has to try and keep you two fools alive," scolded Dori, but then his face softened, and he stepped closer, putting a hand on Nori's shoulder. "I know what they mean to you, Nori. And I love them too."

A lump rose in Nori's throat and he nodded. "Right then," he said. "Time to go."

Thorin nodded, leading them out towards the door.

"May the Valar protect you," he said softly, a thousand fears carved into the lines on his face. "And may fate help you bring them home."

Again, Nori nodded, and then the door was opened, and a cool rush of night air threw back his hood. He pulled it back up and stepped outside, stooping as low to the ground as he could. He half expected an arrow to shatter against the stone beside him, but there was no sound, and no movement. He heard the soft, steady footsteps of Bofur and Dori behind him, and Thorin's barely audible whisper of 'good luck,' and then the quiet grinding of stone on stone as the door was pulled closed. A thrill of doubt ran down Nori's spine.

They were alone, now. No help would come from the mountain if they came to trouble – it was one thing sacrificing his own life, but he was not the only one out here. He took a deep breath and locked away his emotions as best he could. They would not serve him now. Slowly and carefully, he began to climb, scaling the cliffside to the left of the door. Bofur and Dori followed, and every so often he caught a glimpse of their faces, pale in the moonlight. For the most part, their hoods covered the backs of their heads, and he was grateful. If an orc caught sight of pale skin in the darkness, they were dead.

It was slow work, the climb, and difficult. In the gloom of the night, finding grips and foot holes took time, and his fingers and forearms soon began to ache. Now and again, he would hear a soft curse as one of his companions lost their footing, but no one fell. Higher and higher they rose, winding their way around to the west, until after an hour of solid free climbing led them to the area of the mountain commonly called the Deathless Crags. There, the stone was rough and ragged, with deep crevices cutting into the rock, and hidden passageways formed from the formidable forces of long ago.

According to legend, they were the scar left behind after the great war Morgoth wrought upon Middle-Earth. Nori did not know whether or not that was true, and frankly, he did not care. All he cared about was the fact that his brother was right – the crags did well in hiding the trio of dwarves from any watching eyes. They began to descend, making northwards as best they could, towards where it was believed the lines of the enemy were thinner, but as they did, an eerie, rumbling sound began to growl from the southern face of the mountain. Where the doors were.

Holding up a hand to signal to the others, Nori paused, listening intently. It sounded like the tramp of many feet, only duller, almost muffled – as though a horde of men were trying to move without making any noise. At once, his mind turned to the army of men at their doors, but if it was indeed them moving, the quiet made little sense. There was no tactical advantage to it – if they were advancing speed would serve them better than silence. The guards would spy them a mile away.

"What is that?" Bofur murmured, and Nori shrugged slowly.

"Let's just keep moving," he said, and though both his companions hesitated, they nodded.

Crouching a little lower, Nori pressed on, ignoring the growing sound, and keeping his mind focused. Nelly and Bróin – he had to get to them. He had to reach Isengard before that damn uruk did, he had to. If he failed –

He pushed forward, faster, further, travelling with as much speed as silence would allow, until finally, the land before them grew smoother, and he stooped almost to the ground. Bofur and Dori followed him, creeping up to a large boulder and peering over the top of it to see how many soldiers they would have to face.

Nori blinked, and shook his head slightly.

"I thought you said the whole mountain was surrounded?" he hissed at Dori, and his brother shook his head, staring down in shock at the empty land below them.

"I thought… It was – the scouts've said for weeks they have us surrounded, and it's only got worse since you arrived. It's a trap! It's got to be!"

"For us?" asked Bofur uncertainly, and Dori nodded.

"Not us specifically, but I reckon they'd know Thorin would try and send someone, and they know we couldn't go out the main door… Thorin's right. We should turn back, regroup."

Nori gritted his teeth. "Turn back then, and shut up."

"Nori-"

"I said shut up!" he snapped, shielding his eyes and peering deeper into the gloom of the night. The sapling forests that had been upon the mountainside that all been burnt down and destroyed - they would be naked as soon as they left the cover of the rocks, and would be for several miles – until they reached the edge of the Long Lake, at least, but he could not catch sight of even a single guard. He shrugged, then looked at the others. "Right. If I make it three hundred feet, I reckon it's safe enough for you to follow."

Dori's eyes bulged. "Nori-"

"Wait!" gasped Bofur, reaching for him, but Nori had already leapt over the boulder, and he hit the ground running. He kept low, and he kept fast, speeding over the dirt and stone, and making as straight a line for the Lake as he could. Gravity urged him along, hastening him down the mountain, and he soon heard the dull treads of Dori and Bofur running along behind him. A thrill ran through him, sparking hope in his gut. They could make it – they might make it yet. His arms pumped faster at his sides as a grin of grim determination spread across his face.

And then he heard a bell. It rang loud and clear, a warning, an alarm, and his hope turned to horror.

"Run!" he cried, pouring on speed, and he could hear Bofur and Dori hurrying after him. They had to have been spotted. Any moment now, surely, the orcs would be upon them, but after a few moments, the bell stopped ringing.

Silence fell.

And then the sound of an explosion blew the quiet of the night to oblivion.

* * *

All her life, Pervinca Took had been known as the poised one. She was the one that watched folk for hours before forming opinions, the one who listened for minutes or even hours before she spoke.

She was the one who could not be read, the one who kept their feelings behind a graceful mask, the one who spoke of her fears to only a few. She was less dramatic than Pearl, and less impetuous than Nelly. She was nowhere near as animated as Pippin.

Some thought it was simply a matter of self-control, but Vinca was not so sure. She had always been that way, almost hesitant, even as she grew more sure of herself. The last time she had sobbed had been the night they buried Soren. Before that, she could not remember.

Now, her throat burnt and her cheeks stung with the residue of fading tears. She was still trembling, her lungs still trying to slow her breathing down, but her tears had stopped, and she was not sobbing anymore. With trembling hands, she strung Nelly's beads onto the chain around her neck. Nori had given them to her when he told her what the uruk had said, and they had been clenched in her palm ever since. The rich patterns of their carvings were emblazoned red on her skin, but now the beads sat against her chest, and she bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Nori had told her of his plan – if it could even be called a plan – there and then, but he had begged her not to join him. He said that she was too young to go on a quest ending in death, that Nelly would never want her to go. That he would lock her in the dungeons before he would see her in such danger on the road.

So Vinca relented, and promised to stay.

Never, in all of her life, had she felt so alone.

She had never been away from her parents for so long, she had never been ripped away from her siblings by darkness and cruel twists of fate. Only once had she come close to feeling such grief, such loneliness and terror and _emptiness_ , and that had been when Pippin and her father were kidnapped by orcs on their way to Erebor.

This was worse.

As a child, she had not really understood what was going on, and though she had been absolutely terrified, her mama had been with her. Her mother had comforted her, and shielded her from the worst-case scenarios as best as she could. Pearl had been with her too, and even though her voice had trembled and her tears had fallen into Vinca's hair, she had held her sister close through night and day, and had not let go of her hand until they reached Mirkwood. Beside them had been Nelly, and though she had spent most of her time with Nori, she had been there, and if Vinca called for her it would be only seconds before her sister appeared.

Nelly was not there now, and Vinca was not a child. She knew what could be happening, what her sister could be going through. She knew what it meant that Nelly was at the mercy of a traitor. She did not want to know, she could not bear to think or to imagine, but she knew. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Nelly there, bruised and bloodied, or screaming – or dead.

She could imagine her sister's head, delivered to Erebor on a silver platter, and there was no one there to chase the image away. She could not talk to Dís – there was enough stress on her already, and it was not good for the babies, but other than her sisters and her mother, Dís was the only soul that Vinca had ever truly confided in. She was the only person in the mountain that Vinca would _want_ to talk to about her grief and her fear.

Almost.

She peered down at Nelly's beads, now sitting against her chest, and her resolve shattered. Biting her lip, she rubbed the remains of tears from her cheeks and stood up, grabbing her coat and lighting a lantern. Breathing slowly, deeply, she tried to ignore the lump in her throat, and slid a long, sheathed knife into her belt. Just in case.

It was gone midnight, after all.

Raising the lantern, she stepped quietly out of her front door, peering up and down the road of the Halls of the High Nobles. She could see no one else around, no man or woman or child – only the shadows of the guards lingering at the ends of the halls, just out of reach of her lamp light. She could feel their eyes on her, but it was not until she reached the exit of that one tried to stop her.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said. "I must advise you to return to your rooms. The night is no longer as safe as we would like it, and no one ought to be walking alone without care."

She inclined her head. "My thanks for your concern, sir. I may be alone, but I'm not without care. I hear your warning, and I ask you to kindly let me pass, please."

The guard bowed low. "As you wish, my lady. Take care."

"You too," she murmured, and she left the Halls of the High Nobles behind her. She had never been outside them at night before, not alone. Nelly had, all the time, but it drove their mother insane and Vinca would much rather avoid the arguments.

What she would not give to hear one now…

She blinked away fresh tears and sniffed, quickening her pace. The cool, deep darkness of the mountain was somehow comforting, though she could see little beyond the soft glow of her lantern. The streetlamps were no longer lit past eleven, given that fuel was becoming dearer.

Suddenly, she felt very much alone.

Vinca felt the urge to cry rise within her again, and she forced it back down, wiping her eyes on her sleeves and speeding up until she was all but running.

"Halt!" called a voice so suddenly and sharply that she jumped, and froze the moment her feet hit the floor. Slowly, she turned to look at the dwarf who had yelled, and her stomach gave a small swoop of fear. It was a guard, but not one who she knew, and his sword was pointing right at her.

"Who are you?" he barked, "And where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Kindly lower your sword, sir," she said, raising her chin. "My name-"

"Do not presume to tell me what to do!" snapped the guard, shoving his sword closer towards her. She leapt back, but the guard stepped forwards, resting the tip of his blade on the base of her neck, between her collarbones. Vinca froze. "I am sick and tired of you menfolk prancing around like you own the damn mountain! I've told Lord Dwalin we need a curfew, and this is why! Just what are you doing sneaking around in the dead of night, wench? Are you a thief, perhaps, or a whore?" he spat at the ground, and Vinca's fear was fully replaced by fury. She drew back her shoulders and raised her chin. Here, she knew that Nelly would speak in a voice like ice. Pearl would probably falter, or splutter in indignance or outrage. But Vinca was the most poised of her sisters, and so she merely lifted an eyebrow, and spoke in a voice as soft and sweet as she could make it.

"I am Pervinca Took, daughter of Lord Paladin of Erebor."

Fury still contorted on his face, the guard opened his mouth, but then he paused, and his eyes flicked down towards her bare feet. Concealing a grin, she drummed her hairy toes against the ground and watched as the blood drained from his face. He thrust his sword into his scabbard with such speed that he fumbled, and then he bowed so low that his beard scraped the floor.

"Forgive me, my lady!" he stammered. "I, I thought you were one of the Bardings!"

She shook her head slightly, her thumb tracing the base of her neck, where his sword had sat. "And you think that's a decent way to talk to one of the Bardings?"

The corner of the guard's eye twitched, as though he was fighting away a grimace. "I'm sure most of them are fine people, my lady, but you have to understand, there are some of them sneaking around at night, putting their noses where they ought not to put them. There've been thefts, and muggings and all sorts, down where the Men are staying, and it's my job to keep the people of the mountain safe."

"But a Barding my size would be a child," she said. "You would point a sword at a little girl and ask her if she was a thief or a whore?"

"I knew you were not a child," he protested, his gaze landing inevitably on her chest. Vinca stiffened, and fought the urge to back away, or draw her coat more tightly around herself. Slowly, the guard met her eyes, and a tinge of red coloured his cheeks. He grunted and looked away. "Besides, some women are short."

"What is your name, Guard?" she asked.

"Nifar," he grunted. "Son of Narfi. At your service. And here – if you tell Lord Dwalin of what I have said, I won't deny it! I speak only the truth. You interact with the noble Bardings, the ones with manners and morals – you don't see the rabble the rest of us deal with. They will be the death of this mountain."

"I will tell Lord Dwalin what you have said," she replied, keeping her voice soft even as she drove steel into her voice. "And I have half a mind to tell him that your blade touched my skin before I had a chance to offer my name."

Nifar turned a deeper shade of red, his scowl contorting his face even as alarm flickered in his eyes. "Do what you must, my lady."

"I might not mention it," she said slowly, "if you tell me one thing. Where is Ari, son of Orvar, positioned tonight?"

The dwarf paused, his scowl fading just a little. "Ari Lightfoot?" When she nodded, he jerked his chin towards the south. "He's in the first Guardroom after the doors. Near where the elven scu- where the elves are staying."

"Thank you," she said, as lightly as she could. "Now, if it's all the same with you, I'll be on my way. And please, Master Nifar, I know that things are uneasy, but please try to be a little kinder to our allies, now."

He bowed, stepping aside and letting her pass, and she walked by with all the slow decorum she could muster. As soon as she turned the corner, she sped up, but it felt like his gaze was still boring into her as she hurried through the darkness. She shivered.

Dwalin had said that things were getting tense, but she would never have imagined that a Guard of Erebor would do such a thing. Her hand rose again to the base of her throat, and she wondered what would have happened if she had not been a hobbit. It made her feel rather ill.

She wrapped her arms around herself as tightly as she could and hurried on, passing the quarters where the elves were sleeping and making a beeline straight for the nearby guardroom, but the as soon as she reached the open doorway, she froze. Ari was not alone – his captain was with him, and their heads were bowed low over the table in quiet conversation. If Captain Tolchar suspected that Ari and Vinca were seeing each other…

She stepped back, but Tolchar looked up, and then rose with a short bow. Beside him, Ari's eyes widened, and he stood up too.

"My lady," said Tolchar, bowing low. "Can we be of assistance?"

"I-" she choked, and tried to clear her throat, but a wave of tears rose like a furnace within her, and she shook her head slightly. "I just – I – I didn't…"

"What's wrong?" asked Ari, concern filling his eyes. "Vinca, are you alright, are you hurt?"

Tears fled down her cheeks as she shook her head, and stepped back again. "I, I'm sorry, I shouldn't've… I know you're on duty but I… I just wanted to talk to you. To Ari." Her voice came out like a broken whimper, and she felt herself begin to shake again. Embarrassment rose within her, a shame that she could not be stronger, but her poise seemed to have abandoned her entirely. "I'm sorry, it, it was stupid, but you - there's no one else in the mountain that I, I can talk to. I'm sorry, it was stupid and selfish and-"

"It was neither stupid nor selfish, Miss Took, though I grant that I think your wandering the mountain alone at night ill-advised, especially in such a state," said the captain, in a voice so gentle that Vinca gave a little gasp of shock. He strode over to her, taking her by the elbow and leading her to his chair. "I know that you and Master Ari have been friends since childhood, and I am well aware what news you heard yesterday. You have my deepest sympathies, my lady. Truly."

"Thank you," Vinca whispered, fumbling frantically for a handkerchief, but her pockets were empty. As if reading her mind, Captain Tolchar took a small, neatly pressed handkerchief from his own pocket and passed it to her.

"I know that you need your friends, but these are dangerous times, and in future it may be best to keep visiting to the daytime," he said quietly. "Nevertheless, you're here now – I don't believe there would be anything wrong with your taking your break now, Ari. When the hour is up, you may walk Miss Took home, and I expect you back here in no less than half an hour after that."

Ari looked up. "Are you sure, sir?"

"Certain," said Tolchar, bowing to Vinca once again. A look of sympathy and sorrow, deep and sincere, was carved into his face, and he nodded. "Once again, my deepest condolences, my lady."

He held out his hand, waiting for Vinca to rise and guiding her and Ari to the door. At once, Ari's arm slipped around her waist, high enough to look like the grip of a close friend, but he held her close as he led her out of the guard room and a little way down the hall in the opposite direction of the gate.

"I know somewhere close," he murmured to her. "Somewhere no one will disturb us. It's no far, I promise." She nodded mutely, and he led her up a small stairway to an old, wooden door. He unlocked the door with the ring of keys that hung from his belt, and pushed it open, leading her inside a small, windowless room, complete with a small bench. "It used to be an old watch room. My favourite, actually. Where this new stone is, that used to look over the front gates, and the view… It was beautiful…" Ari sighed, gazing at the stone as though he could somehow still see through it. "It was deemed too much of a risk to leave the window open. It was damaged by Smaug, and it'd been sured up, of course, but once the mountain was under a threat like this… No one can afford weak spots." Sniffing, Vinca nodded and wiped her nose, and Ari winced.

"I'm sorry," he said, taking her arms. "I'm sorry. You don't want to talk about that now."

"No," she whispered, fresh tears springing to her eyes as her voice choked on the lump in her throat. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't've, shouldn't've come out, I – your job, your honour, Ari, I, I'm sorry-" She fell silent as Ari wrapped his arms around her, sinking his fingers through her hair and pulling her close.

"Shh," he murmured, resting his cheek on her hair. "It's alright. It's alright. I'm here. I'm sorry I couldn't get the evening off. I tried… I wanted to be there with you. I'm so sorry, Vinca."

She bit back a sob, pressing her face against the firm lines of his armour. "I – I should, should've gone with Nori, I-"

"No. You did the right thing – but that doesn't mean we can't help. We'll keep trying Nelly, we'll keep doing anything we can to help, and if we can figure out how to get out of the mountain alive, we'll do it. I was thinking, if we send word to Mirkwood, Thranduil or the Beornings might be able to help. Come on, let's sit down." He steered her gently to a nearby bench, but kept his arms around her, drawing her into his lap.

"They'll be dead by the time we get there," she whispered, her fingers tightening around his arm. "Nori's right. They… they won't be coming home."

Ari held her tighter. "I'm so sorry, Vinca. I'm so, so sorry." She squeezed her eyes shut and whimpered, and he began to slowly rock back and forth. "It's alright," he whispered. "I'm here. You can cry. I've got you."

Vinca shook her head, but sobs broke free from her nevertheless, as though they had been waiting for Ari's permission. Resting his chin on her head, Ari hugged her close, and after a few moments she could feel his tears falling upon her hair.

"I know," he mumbled, his voice raw. "I know…"

At once, she thought of Austen and Auden, of Glóin finding their corpses, of Ari knowing with utmost certainty that his brothers would never be coming home. She let out a short wail and twisted around, crushing her face into his breastplate. She felt him take a deep breath, felt him shudder, felt him press kiss after kiss onto her hair.

For more than half an hour they sat like that, entwined, until final Vinca's sobs lost their strength, and left her be. Then, for a moment, they sat in silence.

"I wish there was something more I could say," said Ari softly, gently pulling a lock of hair away from Vinca's face and tucking it behind her ear. "I…"

"I know."

Ari glanced down for a moment. "I – it may sound callous but I – I'm glad you're here, Vinca. I'm so glad you're home. I was so scared... So scared."

Despite everything, a tiny shadow of a half-smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "I'm glad I'm here too. I missed you."

"I missed you too. So much. I – I love you, Vinca."

"I love you, too," she whispered, drawing in a slow, deep breath. "Are you sure you won't get in trouble?"

"Positive," he said. "And I wouldn't care if I did."

"I would care," she said, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. "I don't want… I've said before that this is worth waiting for, Ari."

"I know," he replied, kissing the end of her nose. His eyes, usually so bright a shade of green, were dark with tears and sorrow. "You will always be worth waiting for. But grief doesn't wait. Pain doesn't wait. And if you need me, I won't wait either."

A lump grew in her throat and tears sprang to her eyes, but to her relief she did not start crying again. Instead, she reached up and took one of his braids between her fingers.

"I won't wait either," she promised. "Not when you need me."

He gave her a sad echo of a smile, and bowed his head. He had not talked to her about the twins' deaths. He had cried with her, and she had sat with him and held him, but he had not said a word, not even their names.

Now, she understood.

They sat in silence for a while, with Vinca twirling his braids over her fingers, and Ari twisting a hidden braid at the base of her scalp, but as they sat, Vinca's ears began to twitch. Beside her, Ari sat up a little straighter, listening too, and she frowned a little.

The sound was distant, an odd, rumbling trudge like an endless toll of thunder, or the muffled tread of a moving crowd, and it was growing louder. She glanced up at Ari. Confusion was furrowing his bow, but he gave a little shrug.

"It can't be anything dangerous," he assured her. "The Guard would have seen, raised the alarm."

She nodded, but kept listening. As the sound grew stronger, the hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she stood up.

"Ari, I think something's wrong."

"Alright," he said slowly, rising to his feet. "You think it's outside?"

"Sounds like it, doesn't it?"

He nodded, listening intently for a moment. "I know somewhere we can look out over the gate, from the side. This way," he said, leading her out of the door and back down the corridor. He stopped by another small door, opening it with another key from his ring. There was a small, stone staircase curling up behind it, and he began to climb, his hand trailing back to take Vinca's. The sound was louder here, much louder, but still oddly muffled, and after a moment or two they came to a small platform. Above it, just a little higher than their heads, was a long, thin window. Unlike an archer's window, it sat horizontal, long enough for two dwarves to easily gaze outside, but small enough that a man would struggle even to shove his hand inside. Ari and Vinca shared a glance, and then they stood on the platform, and peered outside.

Vinca's heart plummeted down through her stomach as her mouth dropped open, and her free hand closed on the cold stone of the windowsill.

It was impossible.

The army of Mordor was standing but fifty yards from the gate, their torches lit and their swords glowing red in the light of the flames.

And lying strewn across the balcony at the top of the gates were the bloodied bodies of fifty dwarven guards, each motionless. Each dead.

"It can't be," breathed Ari, his grip on Vinca's hand crushingly strong. "They – they would have raised the alarm; we would have heard something!"

"Look!" whispered Vinca, pointing at a rope dangling down by one of the bodies. "They came from above, it was an ambush – it's an ambush!"

Ari swore, sprinting back down the stairs so fast that Vinca's arm would have been wrenched from its socket if she had not been already running after him herself. They flew into the corridor and then Ari stopped abruptly, pressing his keys into Vinca's hands.

"Get back to the window and lock the door, stay there until I come back!"

"Where are you going?"

"The War Bell," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "It's right by the gate, but it's the quickest way to alert the whole army. Anything else will take too long."

She nodded, and pushed his keys back into his palms. "Let's go." Ari paused, pain twitching across his face, but she took his hand to the hilt of her knife. "I am not afraid of death."

He shook his head slightly, biting down on his lip and raising his hand towards her cheek. His eyes searched hers, and then they closed, and he nodded. Ari leant forward and kissed her forehead, lingering just a little longer than usual.

"I fear your death more than anything," he whispered. "But we are folk of Erebor, and fear cannot hold us." He paused, and then nodded at her left hand. "We should leave the lantern here – if they see us…"

She nodded, blowing out the flame and tucking it behind the door, plunging them both into gloom and darkness. It was not utterly black – the corridors nearest the gate were lit with candles, but they were few and far between, meant to offer enough light for a dwarf to glimpse his way. For a hobbit, it was not easy to see far beyond the reach of your arms.

"Stay close," Ari murmured, slipping through the darkness with as much stealth as a hobbit. The moniker Lightfoot had not been given poorly – Ari had been practising sneaking since he first met Bilbo all those years ago, and he made no more noise than Vinca did as they sped back towards the gate.

Footsteps began to sound in the darkness and Vinca stiffened, grabbing Ari's hand. Without a moment's hesitation he whirled around, grabbing her and pulling her behind a nearby statue. Heart pounding hard in her chest, Vinca tried to flatten herself against the wall as the footsteps grew closer. She glanced over her shoulder, peering through a hole in the statue in an effort to catch a glimpse of whoever was coming. Wedged in beside her, Ari did the same, and after a painfully long moment, a dwarf came into view.

Tolchar.

The captain was wiping his hands on his tunic, strolling back towards the Guard Room that he and Ari had been in as if he had not a care in the world.

"What a time for a bathroom break," breathed Ari, and Vinca started to smile, leaning out from around the statue.

And then a goblin dropped down from the ceiling and wrapped its great arm around Tolchar's mouth, smothering the furious roar of the captain in an instant. With a soft, snickering laugh, the goblin dragged his knife across Tolchar's throat, and Vinca's eyes widened in horror as the dwarf crumpled to his knees. Grappling at his neck, Tolchar choked for a moment, but then he slumped against the ground, his eyes wide and open, and dead.

Vinca whipped back around behind the statue, meeting Ari's horrified eyes as several more thuds met their ears – more goblins dropping from the ceiling, landing on the floor. Five, at least.

"Damn it, Radbug," snarled a cruel voice, and Vinca heard a soft thud as another goblin landed on the ground. "That one was mine!"

"There's plenty for all of us," sang Radbug quietly, stepping over Tolchar's body and striding down the corridor. "Besides, I got a bet on with Muzgash as to how many of the scum I can kill before they realise we're here. He reckons nearer a dozen, but I've beat that mark already. Aiming for fifty."

The other snorted. "Before the others get in? No chance. Any moment now that wall will be cracking."

"If you say so," said Radbug. "But how about a wager of our own – I bet I can stick three women before you can."

"You're on!" growled the other happily. "Come on, boys, let's find us some fresh meat before the rabble arrives!"

The other goblins cheered and cackled quietly, surging forwards down the hall – surging past Vinca and Ari. Still as the stone behind them, the pair watched the retreating backs of the goblins, but whether by fate or luck, not a single one of them turned around.

Ari and Vinca shared a glance for only a moment, and then they tumbled out from behind the statue.

"Do we, do we go after them?" Ari breathed, kneeling by Tolchar's side. Rage and grief trembled through his voice, and Vinca shook her head slightly.

"We have to raise the alarm," she whispered. "You said it yourself, we have to do it now!"

He nodded, rising to his feet, and then they ran, sprinting to the gate with all the speed they could muster. They came across no more goblins, but corpses littered their path. Guards, dozens of them, each taken by surprise, each spilling their blood across the flagstones of their city. So many of them Vinca knew, most by face, but some by name, and when she had to step around the corpse of Dwalin's brother-in-law, Darben, she felt her stomach clench and churn.

And then they reached the gate. The door to the balcony was hanging open, swinging slightly on its hinges, and Ari crept towards it, glancing outside.

"It's clear," he whispered, gazing up. "Far as I can see. The bell's at the far end!"

She nodded, and they crouched down below the wall, sneaking out onto the balcony. The wind was cold, and whipped over Vinca with a sudden lash that raised every hair on her body, but she refused to let herself shiver. She had to keep vigilant, had to keep looking up. If there were more goblins above them, if they were just waiting to drop…

"The rope!" Ari hissed, looking over his shoulder with eyes wide with horror. "They've cut the rope!"

Vinca followed his gaze up a long column to a large, heavy bell, and her heart sank. Sure enough, only a yard or so of rope remained hanging there, over fifty feet above their heads. Of course the goblins would have thought of that, if they had been smart enough to plan an ambush against this. She and Ari should have slayed Radbug and the others where they stood, they should have run screaming back into the city until the whole kingdom was awake. It was what Nelly would have done.

Vinca gasped.

"I have an idea. Cover me, if you can." Without waiting for his reply, she darted around the column, and let out a small sob of relief. "You're always right, aren't you Nelly?" she whispered. Ten years ago now, her sister had got in trouble for climbing one of Erebor's great columns – her defence had been that any column with carved decorations that made excellent hand holds was just asking to be scaled. For a dwarf, or a man, or even an elf, climbing using the engravings would be almost impossible, but hobbits had tiny fingers, and if Nelly could wedge her toes into the tiny gaps, so could Vinca.

So Vinca climbed, her heart skipping a beat every time that her fingers slipped. Cramp shot painfully across her hands, and her core began to shake, but she kept climbing, higher and higher, until finally she was just a little higher than the bell. She took a deep breath, and then she jumped, pushing away from the column and reaching out –

And her hands grazed the rope –

And closed around it –

And she _swung -_

And the bell tolled, and it was a sound so loud that she cried out in pain, cringing downward and trying to raise her shoulders up to cover her ears. She could feel it vibrating through her, feel the sound shuddering through every morsel of her body, shaking the rope from her grip, and her ears hurt so much she was sure that they were bleeding.

And in that moment, she thought of Nelly.

And she gritted her teeth, swinging herself forward again with all her might. The bell tolled again, louder, and she swung again, and again, and again. An arrow shattered against the wall behind her, and then another and she winced, but then she heard it – another bell, an answer.

"Vinca!" Ari roared. "Let go! Come on, we have to go! Let go, I've got you, I've got you!"

There was a great, screeching clang as an arrow hit the bell, and Vinca let go, too frightened even to scream as she plummeted down, but two strong arms caught her before she could hit the ground, swinging her around to lessen the impact. Ari ducked to the ground, out of range of the arrows, lowering her to the ground and brushing the hair from her face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked urgently, holding her face in his hands. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she gasped, grasping his wrist, but as she shook her head it span painfully. A new sound began to swell around them, one that made her skin crawl.

Laughter. The army was laughing.

"We need to move," said Ari, pulling her up onto her feet. "Now!"

She nodded, wincing at the movement, and they ran back inside. Ari threw himself against the balcony, peering down to the inside of the gate, and his eyes widened.

Catching the look on his face, Vinca peered down, her eyes narrowing in confusion. By the base of the gates, was a great metal ball, at least three feet wide, and spiked like a mace. She could smell it too, smell something burning, and she could spy the flickering of a flame below.

With a great roar, dwarven soldiers began to pour into the foyer below, but none came from the level that Vinca and Ari were on – none came from the balconies. Outside, the sound of laughter grew so strong that she could hear it, awful, jeering cackles, and among them a chant.

"Too late! Too late! Too late!"

She looked down again at the strange ball, and at the flame drawing nearer to it, and then she saw _how_ the flame was alight. It was a fuse.

Just like fireworks.

Or a giant flash flame.

"Run!" she cried, seizing Ari's hand and sprinting as fast as she could back the way they had come.

She only made it five feet before the ground beneath them exploded in a tremendous roar of fire and sound, and then she was flying, flying and screaming with Ari's hand still clinging to hers –

And then there was nothing.

 **I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! I'm not overly comfortable writing romantic relationships as it is very much not my forte, so I hope I did Vinca and Ari justice. Please do let me know what you think, I love hearing your opinions and your theories!**

 **Until next time, take care, and thank you for reading!**


	95. Chapter 95: The Revenge of the Steward

**A huge thank you to those wonderful reviews for the last chapter! I hope that you enjoy this chapter as much, and that you continue to enjoy the story as we go onwards. As ever, please forgive any ridiculous typos in this chapter!**

 **Chapter Ninety-Five: The Revenge of the Steward**

Fury burnt in Denethor's gut, its intensity almost unbearable, its heat eating him whole. Never, not even in his darkest nightmares, had he imagined that Boromir could betray him. Boromir – his eldest, his dearest son. The only soul Denethor could count on, the only man in the world who he trusted irrevocably.

But he had – he had listened to the wizards, to the halflings, and he had forsaken his father. He had brought the ragged ranger Aragorn into Denethor's room, ordered Denethor to bow. But Denethor would not bow. He would never bow. All his life, he had been the one to care for the city, and where had this Aragorn been? What right did he, the supposed heir of a line of failed kings, think he had over a city he had visited but once? The rule of Gondor belonged to Denethor, and Denethor alone.

And he deserved it. True, a madness of sorts _had_ taken Denethor, and he had not responded well to the attack on their city, but what did they expect? It was grief, the belief that his sons were dead, and all hope lost, and that could make any man mad. If the pathetic dwarf king Oakenshield could be forgiven for an insanity that almost started a war, Denethor could be forgiven from falling into mourning. As for sending Faramir to Osgiliath, that was not a matter of pride or cruelty – it was the only choice he had.

In letting Frodo go, Faramir had gone knowingly and willingly against both the will of the Steward, and the best interest of his city, and by any man's analysis, that would count as treason. Denethor's hands had been tied. He could hardly give an order that would _exonerate_ Faramir - it was a matter of principal. No ruler that displayed such blatant nepotism could be allowed to rule - of course they could not. And obviously, this was all that he had thought of when he sent Faramir away. He had not been consumed by anger and rage and a loathing that only faded when he saw his son lying on the doorway of death. No matter what Gandalf or Imrahil or his own cursed memories told him

Denethor was a good man.

Yet Boromir could not see the truth in what he had done. Denethor knew the root cause, and he knew it well. This, all of this, was the fault of the wizard. Gandalf had ripped everything from him, had torn away everything that he held dear and made him look like a mind addled fool. He had stolen from Denethor his honour, his position, his sons, and Denethor was no fool. He would not get them back, and he knew it. If Gandalf could turn even Boromir against him, there was no hope that the city or even the guards would get behind him, not without years of careful scheming and planning.

Years that Gondor did not have. The depraved wizard was strutting around as though winning the battle had won them the war, but Denethor knew better. He had seen the destruction that Sauron would wreak upon Gondor, upon this kingdom that was rightfully, truthfully his. He knew the way it would break, one day or another. It was only a matter of time, and Gandalf was as stupid as he was cunning if he did not think every man, woman, and child in the kingdom would not be slaughtered by next year's end.

They may have scraped a victory, but the world of men was doomed, nevertheless.

And Denethor had been cursed to die with nothing – stripped of his Stewardship, scorned by his people, betrayed by his sons – forced to bow to a wild-man who called himself a king, or to wither in a cell designed for the criminally insane.

But Denethor still had his mind, and his wits, and he had his hatred and fury, and now, thanks to Boromir's belief that he was no longer an immediate threat, he had his hands. Some parts of this ending that Gandalf had forged for him could not be escaped, but Denethor, son of Ecthelion would write the end of his own damned story.

And Gandalf would pay.

Now that the crescent moon was high and the cool dark of the deep night was upon them, the guards had gone from Denethor's door. He could see through the small window that the hallway was clear, and he drew from his pocket his labour of the latter half of the day. He grinned. Gandalf may think he had left the 'ailing' steward with no means of escape, but it had not been difficult to wrench out a handful of his own hair, and braid it down into a length of string. It was more slippery than he would have liked, but he was able to create a little noose out of the end, and that was all that mattered.

Wrapping the other end around his finger so it would not fall from his grasp, he lowered it out of the window of his cell, grinning as the loop fell over the bolt on the door. With a hiss of satisfaction, he pulled it tight, and then he pulled the bolt from its sleeve, and he beamed. There was no handle on the inside, so he simply gave the door an experimental push. Nothing. He snarled, but then paused, digging his nails into the side of the door and wedging it open. Pain splintered across his fingertips, but then the heavy door began to ease open, and as soon as he got his hands in the gap it swung open as easily as any other.

A cool smile slipped across his face. Freedom.

 _You will know what it means, Mithrandir,_ he thought bitterly. _You will know what it means to have those you hold dear ripped away from you. You will know._

It was only at this time of night that the halls were truly quiet in the Houses of Healing, and no one disturbed his search. No one even woke, and on his third try, he found his prey. In a small, quiet room, completely alone and fast asleep, were the two halflings.

One was the swine his guards had failed to kill, peace on his smug little face as he curled against the other, who was a stranger to Denethor. He did not look entirely well - dark smudges beneath his eyes stood out starkly against the pallid colour of his face, and there was a pinch of discomfort on his face. Denethor knew that his name was "Merry", that he had been injured in the battle. That he was weaker, and not a threat.

For a moment, Denethor toyed with taking him first, but common sense prevailed. These little rats, pathetic as they were, were trained in combat, and uninjured as he was, Peregrin Took posed the greater threat. As he gazed down on Pippin's face, he remembered how the brat had challenged him, had raised his sword and told him Boromir would turn on him, and Denethor's fury grew hotter.

Yes. It was right that this one die first.

Carefully, he pulled the blanket beneath the hobbit, drawing him away from his friend without waking him, but even when he reached the edge of the bed, Pippin did not stir. Gentle as a father with a new-born child, Denethor tipped the hobbit into his arms, lowering him quickly onto the floor, and Pippin frowned, his body twisting as his eyes began to open.

And with a surge of satisfaction greater even than his rage, Denethor closed his hands around the hobbit's neck.

Pippin's eyes bulged open in horror and he opened his mouth to scream, but Denethor tightened his grip, grinning as the halfling's cry choked out, and his face contorted in pain and fear. Pippin squirmed and struggled, but Denethor's knees were already pinning down his arms by his sides, and with every frantic, whimpering gasp Pippin choked down, Denethor's heart rose, and hands tightened. He could feel the halfling's windpipe closing beneath his grip, and Pippin threw his feet against the ground, but all the sound he could make was a dull thud, a drum beat to play beneath the pathetic little choking gasps that were growing shorter and shallower with every moment.

Denethor's heart beat fast and hard in his chest as the Pippin's struggled began to grow weaker, and the desperate kicking of his feet faded into feeble little flailing, but as he did, a confused moan drew Denethor's gaze up to the bed. He narrowed his eyes, tightening his grip one final time, until he could not hope to squeeze any tighter.

"Pippin?" mumbled the voice, and Pippin's eyes flew over towards the bed. Even as his fighting grew feeble, the desperation in his eyes was wild and intense, and Denethor wanted to see it.

"No!" he growled, thrusting Pippin against the stone floor. "You look at me. _Look at me!"_

A weak, whine of a whimper escaped the hobbit's lips as he looked back at Denethor, but it was only for a moment. Slowly, beautifully, his eyes lost focus, and then they rolled back up into his skull, and he stopped kicking. Satisfaction roared within Denethor, and he held his grip firm, even as the other hobbit clawed his way to the edge of the bed, and let out a raw, horror-struck cry.

"Pippin! _Help-"_

Releasing but a single hand, Denethor struck Merry in the throat, hard, and the yelling was drowned by choking gasps as the injured halfling clutched at his neck.

Just in time for his friend to watch, Pippin's body crumpled limp against the ground, his eyelids fluttering shut as his head tilted back against the ground, and Merry let out a strangled, gasping scream.

" _Pippin!_ "

Denethor rose, relishing the broken, wheezing gasp let out by Pippin as his body responded to the lack of pressure. The halfling's eyes remained closed, and the choking gasps that shook him could not be described as true breaths, and it did not matter that he was not dead already. He would never recover enough to fight back.

"Hush now, halfling," said Denethor, grinning as Merry's horror-struck eyes snapped onto him. "It will be over soon."

Merry's face contorted in fury and he opened his mouth again, but Denethor reached out and crushed the halfling's throat between his hands, and at once Merry's fury melted into fear. He fought fiercely, hitting out with his trembling left arm, tugging at Denethor's hair and clawing at his face with such spirit that Denethor almost felt he deserved to live.

Almost.

He may have been fierce, but Merry was also injured, and weak, and within but a few moments, his arm flopped uselessly to his side, and his eyes began to struggle to keep their focus. Glancing down, Denethor caught sight of blood blooming over his hip, stark against the white of his pyjamas. He wondered what old wound he had reopened, whether Merry had won it in battle, like a man.

He stared deep into the halfling's eyes as the life in them began to grow dim, and he grinned. He could not hear Pippin choking anymore. He could not hear Pippin at all.

"When you're gone, I shall put my boys to bed one last time," he hissed, enjoying the flicker of fear that shone through Merry's glazed eyes. "And Gandalf will have none of us!"

As sudden and loud as a crack of thunder, the howl of a great wolf tore through the room and the door was thrown open, and Denethor gasped, throwing his head over his shoulder. He did not even see who was there before the arrow struck his shoulder, embedding deep in his flesh and throwing him away from Merry, who drew in a deep, choking breath. A pair of great paws landed on Denethor's chest, knocking him further away, and then the wolf growled, scrambling up onto the bed and dragging Merry back by the collar.

Howling in pain, Denethor grabbed at his shoulder, eyes widening at the blood that spilt fast and free over his fingers, but then a voice he knew better than any cried out a name, with so much pain in his voice that tears welled in Denethor's eyes.

"Merry!" Boromir cried, but Merry shook his head.

"Pi-Pippin!" he gasped, and Denethor watched his son crash down to his knees at Pippin's side.

"No, no, no!" Boromir's voice broke, terror flooding free from it, and he tipped Pippin's head back a little further. "Breathe, Pippin, we're here, we're here, please, breathe, _please!"_

Behind him, a strange dwarf let out a roar of rage and anguish and he surged forward, but a man – Aragorn the usurper, no less, grabbed him, and held him back, and Pippin gasped in a short breath.

"That's it, that's it," whimpered Boromir, drawing Pippin up into his lap and supporting his head like a baby, keeping his airway open as he rocked him back and forth. "Breathe, Pippin, breathe, please, please…"

A numbness filled Denethor's heart as Pippin coughed, and then drew in another breath, and another, life guiding the rise and fall of his chest as he lay cradled in Boromir's arms.

And then Boromir looked up at him, meeting Denethor's eyes with a look of utter agony.

"Why?" he whispered, shaking his head as his chest shook violently. "Why would… how could… _why? Why? WHY?"_

This was not supposed to happen. This was not how it was supposed to go. Boromir was not supposed to get hurt like this.

Boromir was not supposed to see an injured halfling and his injured father, and run straight to the side of the hobbit.

Aragorn gave a sudden cry of pain, and Denethor looked up to see the dwarf charging at him, a single-minded fury in his eyes. Boromir let out a yell and from somewhere behind the doorway Gandalf roared, "No!" and Denethor narrowed his eyes.

 _No chance._

He wrenched the arrow from his shoulder, whole, intact, and as the dwarf charged him he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"I fall by no hand but mine!"

With a flourish, he drew his last deep breath, and in the second before the dwarf reached him, Denethor, son of Ecthelion drove the arrow of Legolas deep through his own eye, and into his brain.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

 **...**

 **So that was intense to write! I hope that you enjoyed that - I wonder if anyone saw it coming? If you have any feedback, please do let me know, I love hearing from you! As for what comes next, I really hope you'll enjoy that too, but until next time, take care.**


	96. Chapter 96: Sanctuary

**Hello everyone! Thank you for the lovely reviews for the last chapter, I really appreciate them! So , I am a little late, but I've finally finished this mammoth chapter, so I hope you enjoy it! Just as a warning, this chapter contains scenes of war and civilian death – it's no more graphic than other events in the story, but there are mentions of the death of a young child that you may find upsetting. If you have any questions or concerns, please don't hesitate to drop me a message, and if you think you'd rather not read it, or prefer to hear all the sad spoilers first please do send me a PM and I'll explain the plot points for you. I don't want to put anyone off, but I'd also hate to trigger anyone.**

 **Anways, I hope you enjoy!**

 **Chapter Ninety-Six: Sanctuary**

Fíli threw open the door between his room and his brother's, his heart already pounding so hard he thought his ribs might burst. The toll of the war bells was ringing through the city so loudly that even the deaf could feel them, and Kíli was already awake, and already more pale than the stark, white cast around his chest.

"Fee-" he broke off, trying to push himself up the bed with his arms alone. "Fíli, that sounded like an explosion, that's the war bell, the _war_ bell, we're-"

Rushing across the room, Fíli guided his brother back down, taking Kíli's hand and squeezing it tightly. "You'll be alright," he swore, pressing his forehead against his brother's for a moment. "You will be safe here, Kíli, I swear it, but I must go. I must help our people."

Kíli went even paler, the childlike terror in his eyes making them deeper, and darker, and he grabbed Fíli's wrist tightly. "You come back." Fíli's heart stung, and he opened his mouth, but Kíli shook his head, his lower lip trembling. "I know you have to go and I – I would too, but… but you come back, afterwards. Promise me."

Squeezing Kíli's hand, Fíli tried to smile. "I'll do my best."

"Promise me," protested Kíli, tightening his grip on his brother's wrist with growing urgency. "Promise me, Fee. Please, promise me. The last time we did battle you were reckless, and I – promise me."

Fíli pulled his brother into his arms, and felt Kíli's arms wrap desperately around him. He shivered, and prayed that it would not be the last time he could do so, that the whispered words that fell from his lips would not be a lie. "I promise."

The door flew open and Fíli looked up sharply. His heart twisted slightly at the sight of his parents standing there in their pyjamas, swords in their hands, with faces paler even than Kíli's. For a moment, they all froze, and then Fíli swallowed, making his voice as even as he could.

"I'm going down to fight."

"But-" Bilbo began, his face twisting in dismay, but Dís put her hand on his arm and hurried forward, taking Fíli in her arms and holding him tightly.

"Be swift," she murmured. "And be safe. Come back to us, dushtêl."

Fíli nodded, and kissed her cheek, before pulling away and looking to Bilbo. The hobbit smiled bravely, and held out his arm.

"Come on then," he said, guiding Fíli back towards his bedroom. "I'll help with your armour. Wouldn't want to go into battle in your nightclothes now, would you?"

"Thank you," Fíli murmured, glancing over his shoulder to catch a last glimpse of his brother and mother before the door closed.

"Don't you worry about them," said Bilbo, though his voice shook, and his hands trembled as they grabbed Fíli's mithril shirt from the closet. "I'll look after them, I won't let anything happen to them, don't you worry. You just worry about yourself, and make sure you don't go getting hurt, now. Worrying about one of you is enough, thank you very much."

Fíli nodded, fastening his armour as quickly as he could. With Bilbo's help it took only a matter of minutes, but still it felt too long, and by the time he grabbed his swords, Fíli feared he might already be too late.

"I must go, now," he said, squeezing Bilbo's arm. "Thank you."

"I'm very proud of you, Fíli, and I love you very much," Bilbo replied, a tear winding down his cheek. "You look after yourself, now."

Fíli bowed, and then he ran, throwing himself out of the door and tearing down the hallway, and out of the royal chambers. A small troop of soldiers were running at him, guards charged with protecting the royal family, and when they saw him their eyes widened.

"My lord-" yelled one, but Fíli shook his head.

"My brother and parents are in Kíli's room," he said, without even slowing his pace. "Protect them – I will help our people."

"Yes, my lord," bowed the dwarf, as half of his party ran up the stairs, and the others fanned out around the hall.

And Fíli kept running. A part of him ached to leave Kíli and their parents behind, but a greater part of him was grateful. His mother was too far along in her pregnancy to fight, and Bilbo was no warrior. As for Kíli…

He shook his head, focusing on what was ahead. Already, the hallway was full, teeming with dwarves answering the call of the war bells, running south towards the gates in a rank they had formed without rehearsal. They were mostly dwarves he knew, kith and kin who dwelt in the Halls of the High Nobles, and all were in various states of dress. A few were in full armour, but most had only a mail shirt or a breastplate pulled over their nightclothes. Some were still in their pyjamas.

A flash of white hair drew Fíli's eye as Bragi wound his way to his side, with a look of grim determination on his face and Ragan beside him, and a moment later, Fíli spotted Ehren and his parents a few rows before them. He swallowed, and pushed onwards.

"Halt!" cried someone at the front, and Fíli dug his heels into the ground, stopping so abruptly that he almost gave himself whiplash. He craned his neck to try and see what was going on, but he was too far back. He frowned, and listened.

He could hear someone panting, crying, and then they began to speak in frantic, gasping sobs.

"They're in them mountain, in the mountain! It's, it's too late, they, they broke down the wall, they tore it down with fire and they – they – they're everywhere, everyone-"

"Let me through!" Fíli called, and the dwarves before him turned and parted, bowing their heads. Motioning for Bragi to follow him, Fíli jogged to the front of the group to reach the young lad who had spoken. His heart twisted – the boy was no more than a child, and he was trembling head to toe. A spattering of blood speckled his nightshirt, and sweat was slicking his dark hair against his forehead. Putting a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, Fíli met his eyes carefully. "They've broken in? The orcs are _inside_ the mountain?"

The boy nodded vigorously, gasping for breath. "They're tearing through the guards, down, down by the first market."

Fíli swore. There were homes down there, many homes, and just as many refugees – no one had counted on the gates coming down without a warning.

"They're, they're not just going in one direction, too," the boy added with a sob. "They split up, and some are running left and right and every way! You have to help, they, they're nearly at my house!"

"Where is your house?" said Fíli sharply.

The boy sobbed. "New Smith's Road."

Fíli nodded, sparing half a second to glance around. His best guess that there nearly four hundred dwarves behind him, most of the High Nobles who were of the age to fight. Dwalin was nearby, Balin, Glóin and Óin too, and a handful of Captains in the army, but Fíli outranked them all. This was his call.

And he was going to make it.

"Lad, I want you to run as fast as you can, to Una's Doors. Tell the guards to prepare for the worst, but remember you are safe behind those doors. Go, now!" he watched the boy start to run, and then turned to the dwarves before him. "We split up!" he declared. "Dwalin, take the first fifty men and head towards New Smith's road. Balin, you take the next fifty in the other direction. Óin, you take another fifty and head towards the upper levels of the gates, and all of you, make your way towards the doors, and leave no orc or invader alive. This is our home, and these are our people – protect them, at any cost!"

A mighty roar rose among the throng of dwarves in the corridor, and without a second's hesitation, the first ten rows of dwarves followed Dwalin west. The next fifty headed east with Balin, and Óin took the next group upwards, leaving Fíli with around two hundred and fifty odd fighters of his own.

Two hundred and fifty, against the army that had been outside their doors.

He could only hope that more were coming, that more still were already down there. That the bell had not rung too late.

"This way!" he called to his own group. It did not escape his notice that Ehren and Bragi had both stayed beside him. "We're heading straight to the gates, by the shortest path! Du bekar!"

"Du bekar!" roared the warriors, and Fíli set off at a run, leading them towards the growing sounds of screams and steel. The sounds grew louder, and louder still, and Fíli ran faster, already knowing that he was too late for some. He could hear the screaming, hear the voices of children among them, and he knew that the orcs had reached the outermost homes of the mountain. Mainly, they were the houses of guards, and warriors – and their families.

With an almighty screech, a goblin flung down from the ceiling towards him, its sword outstretched and murder in its eyes, but Fíli caught the blade with his own, and plunged his second sword through the beast's throat. "Look up!" he yelled, following his own advice and narrowing his eyes at the sight of at least thirty goblins clinging to the ceiling above them. At once, the goblins squawked, and let go, plummeting towards the dwarves with weapons outstretched. One aimed its scimitar right at Bragi, but Fíli's sword severed its head before it could even reach the ground.

"Alright?" he demanded, and Bragi nodded.

Fíli glanced over his shoulder. Already, the goblins were dispatched, but two dwarves were leaning heavily against the wall, and two more were sprawled, unmoving, on the floor.

"If you're wounded, retreat," Fíli ordered. "Move the dead to the side – we will return for them, but we cannot delay while those still living are in need of us."

There was a mumbling of agreement, and within a matter of moments they were moving again, speeding towards the gates. While there were definitely wounded folk among them, it did not escape Fíli's notice that no one turned back. They came across two more snatches of goblins and orcs, and lost three more of their own in slaying them, before finally they reached the top of the great stair that would take them down to the front gate.

And when he reached it, Fíli's mouth dropped open.

There was a great hole in the centre of their gate, and through it the army outside were trying to swarm in. Already, a great horde of several hundred dwarves were pressed against the gap, stemming the tide, but Fíli knew the size of the army outside.

"Du bekar!" he yelled again, leading his troops down the stairs and sprinting across the hall towards the door, but before he reached it, a familiar figure emerged from the army of dwarves and limped heavily towards him.

His heart skipped a beat.

"Thorin-"

"Go," said Thorin at once, seizing Fíli's arm and pointing back into the mountain, towards the outer marketplace. There was a great lump swelling above the king's left eye, and a large, dark bloodstain on his trousers, but his eyes were ablaze with determination and fury. "Take your soldiers and push back through the lower levels – they took us by surprise, too many got through!"

"But-"

"Go! You must get the people to the deeper levels of the city! We can stem the tide for now, and the bell will bring more warriors here, but none have gone back into the city, and if no one does all we shall fight for is a tomb. Go, now!"

Fíli hesitated, and Thorin leant closer.

"You must do this," he said in a low voice, pressing his forehead against Fíli's. "You are our future, and you must keep our people safe. Go, Fíli – I am proud of you. Go."

Taking a deep breath, Fíli nodded, pulling away from his uncle and turning back to the hundred odd troops that had fallen under his command.

"Barak khazad!" he yelled, jogging backwards through the grand entrance hall, towards the marketplace. "Slay every orc you find, protect our people! This way!" He turned, and heard the battle cry of his people swelling behind him.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he could see Ehren and Bragi flanking him, their faces grim as the screaming before them grew stronger. The smell of smoke hit the back of Fíli's throat as the market came into sight, the roofs of the vendors' huts all wreathed in flame. Fire was licking at the windows of nearby houses, houses with broken in doors, and corpses lying over their thresholds.

Fíli kept running, and the pathway forked before them.

"Joren," he yelled, signalling to Ehren's father. "Take fifty left, Ragan, take fifty right. The rest of you, with me!"

He charged down the main street of the market-place, instinctively ducking around the bloodied corpses of dwarves and orcs strewn across the street. Soon, he caught sight of a band of orcs, a hundred strong at least, rampaging their way through the market. They were streaming into houses, and screams were rising out, and Fíli's blood boiled.

With a roar he threw himself forward, hacking at orc after orc, and feeling a surge of satisfaction thrill him as each one fell down.

"Check every house!" he bellowed, kicking open the door to a nearby home. There was the corpse of a dwarf in the doorway, his axe still in his hand, and behind him a door hung, half torn from its hinges. Behind that door was the body of a woman, draped over the edge of a crib. Fíli's stomach turned, and he forced down the desire to run away screaming. He peered into the cradle, and his heart twisted painfully. The babe looked like it was still sleeping, if you did not look at the blood. Fíli prayed that it had been quick, that the little one had not had time to be afraid or feel pain, and then he backed away.

He threw himself outside, back into the fight, and took down five orcs on the way to the next house, but there he found only more corpses. It was the same in the next house, and the next, and every time he returned to the throng of battle his heart was heavier, and his anger roared louder, but fury and sorrow were only just a match for the vicious glee of the orcs. They jeered and laughed, even as they died, and slew fleeing men and women and children, just inches from the reach of the warriors, and there were so many of them, outnumbering Fíli's dwarves two to one at the very least.

With each body he found, despair began to claw more fiercely up the back of Fíli's throat. If there were so many orcs still in this part of the market, how many more were there in the mountain? How could they hope to stop them before every soul in the city was slaughtered?

How long would it be before they cut through the royal guards, and broke down the doors, and found Bilbo, and Dís, and Kíli? Bilbo was no warrior, and Dís was heavily pregnant and Kíli – Kíli was helpless. As helpless as a little child.

Unbidden, an old memory flashed before his eyes – the memory of another orc raid nearly fifty years ago, and of his brother's tiny, terrified face. It was the memory of Kíli being torn away, of Fíli's world being ripped apart. Of hope being drowned in a river of fierce, black water.

Yet if his brother had taught him anything, it was that there was _always_ hope.

He gritted his teeth, and ducked into the next house, hurrying past the lifeless woman sprawled over the floor. A frying pan was still clutched in her fist, covered in black blood, and the body of an orc lay at her feet.

He threw open the doors to two empty rooms, but in the second, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stepped forward carefully, raising his sword, and then the cupboard burst open, and a tiny dwarf flew out with a strangled roar.

"Stay 'way!" he cried, but then his eyes grew wide and he dropped the ladle from his hand. "Soldiers! Nuala, the soldiers are here!" The boy flung himself across the room with a sob, wrapping his arms around Fíli's legs, and as he did, the lid of a nearby chest cracked open, and Fíli caught sight of a pair of wide eyes peeking out from inside.

"Come, child," he urged. "Hurry! You must be brave, now, quickly!"

There was a whimper, and the chest closed, and Fíli cursed that he did not have time to use more tact. Instead, he took what he was sure would have been Dwalin's approach, running across the room and pulling open the chest. The tiny girl inside screamed and cringed into the back of the chest, but Fíli hoisted her out and over his shoulder.

"Is there anyone else here?" he asked the boy, who shook his head.

"Just me, Nuala and Amad, but Amad's fighting."

Fíli fought to keep from flinching as his eyes flickered towards the hallway where the woman lay dead. He sheathed his swords and grabbed the boy, resting him on his hip. The girl was still crying.

"I need you both to close your eyes," he said firmly. "Now, do you understand me?"

"They're closed, sir," said the boy. "Nuala, close your eyes."

The girl whimpered. "They're closed!"

Fíli nodded, and hurried back out of the house, checking both ways before ducking outside. He kicked the door shut behind him and then put the boy down so that he could draw his sword again.

"Open your eyes," he ordered. "Stay close." His eyes scoured the fight and quickly fell on a couple of other civilians clinging to soldiers, and his mind whirred with a way to get them to safety. As if by the grace of the Valar, he heard a roar, and then looked to see Ragan leading his group of fifty back around, a straggle of a dozen odd survivors behind them, and he nodded.

"Ragan! Ûhaskhajam-okilondin!" Still in Khuzdul, he added, " _Circle your men around them, keep them together, and start working your way to the Old Spring Well."_

Ragan bowed his head sharply, looking so much like Soren that Fíli's heart caught painfully. "You heard the prince!"

At once, Ragan's group corralled the survivors into a small bundle, taking wounded men, women and children from the other dwarves and forming a tight circle around them. A noble lady with a scowl like steel ran up to Fíli with her arms outstretched, and the prince shifted Nuala into the woman's grip. She scooped up the boy with her other arm, bowed her head at Fíli and then turned to deliver the little ones into the ring of survivors.

"Ehren!" Fíli yelled, catching his friend's attention. Again, he yelled out in Khuzdul, grateful beyond words that no orc knew their tongue. " _Find your parents, get them to head for the old Spring Well!"_

Ehren nodded, and jerked his elbow back into the face of a nearby orc, beheading another before sprinting off in the direction that his parents had gone. Fíli turned back to the hoard of orcs, striking his way through them and working his way through home after burning home.

Sighting so many unarmed dwarves in one place, a group of two dozen odd orcs rallied and charged at them, and Fíli felt a stab of panic. They did not have enough people to clear the city and protect the survivors, they did not have enough folk to fight –

He stopped, and took a deep breath. He could not panic. He could not afford panic, and neither could his people.

He steeled himself, and shifted his grip on his swords.

 _I am Fíli, Prince of the Line of Durin,_ he thought fiercely, letting the words fill every part of him. _And you should never have come here._

With a roar, he charged the splintered group alone, relishing the shock in the eyes of the orcs as he did so. He collided with them before they were even within spear's length of Ragan's group of civilians, his twin swords cutting through them like paper, moving as though the metal was not only a part of his body, but an extension of his soul.

He felt a knife stab into his back, felt the pain of the blow strike him even as the blade's tip was foiled by his shiny shirt, and he wheeled around, striking the head from the orc that had landed the blow. The orcs did not wait their turn to fight, instead surging down upon him in a deadly swarm, but Fíli had people to protect, and that was where the Crown Prince had always come into his own. Even as a knife was torn across his face, splitting open the skin of his cheek, Fíli drove his sword through the neck of the last of the two dozen orcs.

Panting heavily, he turned, glancing over the stunned faces of Ragan's group. "Shall we keep going, then?"

Shaking his head slowly, Ragan gave a stunned smile. "After that? Whatever you say, my lord!"

Grinning wryly, Fíli gave a nod and turned, signalling for the others to follow. The dwarves who had remained as his group were pushing the orcs back, forcing open a path for Ragan to get his group through, until at last they reached the Old Spring Well.

"Ehren!" Fíli roared, on the desperate chance that his friend was in earshot. "Hurry up!"

"As you wish, your highness," cried a voice, but it was not Ehren.

It was his mother, Thora, leading a much larger group than she had left with. Several hundred men stood behind her, armed but unarmoured, and sheltered within their ranks were several hundred more folk – women and children and elders of dwarves and menfolk alike.

"Did as you said, Master Fíli," Thora called, "Not an orc left alive behind us, no man left behind."

Fíli grinned, and bowed his head. "Good!" he slipped back into Khuzdul. _"Keep them together, make for Una's Doors by the quickest road! When the unarmed and the children are safe, come back, grab more – our job is to get as many people to safety as we may!"_

"Understood," said Thora, barking out an order. At once, the dwarves of her group parted, forming a living wall that stretched to Ragan's group, ushering the two groups of survivors into one. With the bolstering of the soldiers of the menfolk, they had warriors enough to surround the group, and Thora stood at their head. "This way!" she roared, and Fíli watched them go with a surge of hope.

Deep within the mountain, far underground, was a last refuge of hope for those who could not fight, a great bunker fit to house thousands built in the early days of the mountain. It had been refurbished and secured by Thorin over the last twenty years, and he had commissioned two great doors to replace the old ones, doors as strong and thick as the very gates of Erebor. The image of Fíli's grandmother was carved into each door, and each and every soul dwelling within the mountain had been shown where they were when the siege of Erebor began.

Una's Doors, and Una's Sanctuary, Thorin had named them.

The idea had been that the more vulnerable folk in the mountain would retreat to the Sanctuary when it looked possible that the enemy could break into the city. They had thought there would be warning, that it would take weeks to breach the doors.

 _How_ had _they breached the doors?_

Fíli shook his head slightly. How was not important. What mattered were the thousands of people that they had to move through the mountain at once, those who were already wounded, widowed, orphaned…

He took a deep breath.

A force of nigh on a hundred dwarves remained with him, and after what felt like an age they slew the last orc in the marketplace. His corpse fell with a heavy thud into the Wishing Fountain, his blood dying its clean waters black.

"Which way now?" asked Bragi, breathing heavily and voicing the question on everyone's mind. Fíli took a deep breath, and nodded.

"We'll have to split up again – I doubt all the orc that broke in stayed in the market – four groups, we need four groups…" He glanced around, nodding at some familiar faces in the crowd. "Lord Karl, you lead a group down the westernmost road, Lady Valdís, you take the next lot northwest. Any survivors you find, guide to Una's doors, then make your way back and repeat." They both bowed, and gave a shout, splintering off with two dozen dwarves each down the two main roads, and Fíli nodded. "Lord Ivan, you take the north-eastern road, and I will go east. Stay together, keep your wits about you."

Ivan bowed and ran, and Fíli headed down the east path as quickly as he could, glancing over his shoulder at the twenty-five fighters left to him. It seemed so small a number, in face of the odds, but it did not escape his notice that many who had remained in his group were friends of his, or of the company. Along with Bragi and Ehren, there was Alfr, who had accompanied them on many a journey to the Shire, and Dwalin's brother in laws Dastan, Dustan, and Daren. He also caught sight of Lady Rúna, a close friend of his mother's, and Mette, a friendly lass from the library who was becoming rather close with Ori. Both women were usually mild-mannered and cheerful, but today they carried battle-axes that they wielded with nerves of iron, and a precision that would put elven archers to shame.

Soon, the sound of screaming and of metal on metal grew louder and closer, and Fíli was spurred on, leading his little troop further down into the Grocer's Corner, a small, residential area home mainly to shop-hands and labourers. It was a poorer part of town, the eastern side, and so many doors seemed to have been kicked in with so little effort. Fíli's heart ached at each one.

 _You weren't supposed to be here when the orcs came,_ he thought desperately to each body that he passed. _You were supposed to be safe in Una's Sanctuary, we were supposed to have warning…_

A great swarm of orcs were choking the streets, and Fíli's troop collided with them fiercely, but he feared it was too little, too late. There were so many dead, so many dying, and those survivors they did manage to pull from burning, raided houses struggled to band together. Afraid, some scattered, and most who did were cut down in the streets as they fled. Even those who tried for safety in numbers could not count on as much – Fíli saw several elderly dwarves felled as they tried to run for the meagre group of survivors behind Bragi and Ehren.

His fury blazed hotter with every death that he saw, and Fíli roared, tearing through the orcs until he was at their very centre. A blow to the back of the head stunned him, and Fíli stumbled out of the main fray, twisting around and stabbing up into the ribcage of the orc that had struck him. The creature gave a squawk, grappling with the hilt as he stumbled back, and Fíli realised too late how close they were to the edge of the walkway. He lurched forward, grabbing for his sword, but the orc fell too quickly, tipping over the edge before Fíli could reach him. Fíli growled, watching his sword fall away into the depths of the mountain. Instinctively, he reached for a knife to fill his right hand, but then he froze.

He had not grabbed any of his knives. He did not sleep in knives, not in Erebor, and he had not had the time to properly arm himself beyond his swords –

"Fíli, duck!"

Fíli hit the deck, feeling the air above him gasp as an orc's axe swiped over him. He kicked the creature's legs out from beneath him, and then kicked him again, sending him over the edge after his thieving comrade.

Adjusting his grip on his left sword and leaping to his feet, Fíli looked for Ehren to shout his thanks, but he had already disappeared into the battle. Fíli did the same, feeling blow after blow glance off his mithril shirt, and a bloom of bruises begin to spread across his back and chest, but he pushed on.

A scream tore through the air and Fíli glanced towards it, his heart twisting painfully at the sight. An orc had grabbed a fleeing dwarf woman by her hair, and wrenched her down onto her knees. He had her head tugged back, and his axe raised high, and as Fíli began to run towards her another orc swept down, and wrenched something from her arms. Fíli's blood ran cold as the orc let out a triumphant howl, and the wail of a baby joined its mother's frantic screams.

Laughing with a sickening glee, the orc opened its mouth around the baby's neck, and Fíli roared, ploughing into the orc with all his might. He drove his sword straight through the foul creature's gut, and ripping it upwards through the torso to make sure the job was done. Even as he did so, he snatched the baby away from the orc's claws, cradling her close in the crook of his arm. She was trembling, and crying, and her chubby little hand seized his moustache tightly.

"I've got you," he swore, even as he thrust his sword through the next orc to come too close. He looked back to the mother, and his heart seized as he recognised her. Tûra, daughter of Ovie. The girl from the forges.

The great orc still loomed above her, and it met Fíli's eyes with a dark smile as it brought its axe curving down towards her head. Her arms were crossed above her face in a desperate attempt to stop the blow, but Fíli knew exactly how little that would do.

"No!"

With all the accuracy a second would allow, Fíli hurled his sword, already knowing that it would be too late, that he had no chance of making such a hit.

But he did.

His sword struck the axe mid-air, knocking both blades into the orc's gut, and away from Tûra. Without waiting to see if his foe was truly wounded, Fíli surged forwards and threw a punch so hard the orc's teeth flew from its mouth and shattered against the ground. It swung its axe wildly, but Fíli ducked, keeping little Lula tucked tight against his hip. He kicked the orc away, kicked him down, and then he stooped for his sword, and drove it through the orc's neck.

Panting, he looked up at Tûra. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head slightly, her wide, frightened eyes fixed on the baby. "Lula," she whispered brokenly, and Fíli offered her the crook of his arm to help herself up.

"She's alright," he said gently as she rose. "They didn't hurt her, she's alright."

Tûra whimpered, reaching for her daughter, but then her eyes widened, locking on something behind Fíli's head. He spun around, driving his sword through the throats of several orcs, and then he turned back to her, nodding at a nearby alley.

"This way," he said, leading the trembling Tûra down the little road, away from the bulk of the fighting. With a small smile, he eased the crying baby into Tûra's arms, but she let out a stuttering cry of her own and doubled over, her face going white with pain.

"Where are you hurt?" Fíli urged, time and fear forbidding him from using tact, as he caught Lula's back to stop her falling.

Tears broke from Tûra's eyes, and she shook her head slightly. "She's no burden, I, I can carry her-"

"I'm not going to let them hurt her," he swore, meeting her eyes steadily. "I won't leave her behind, and I will not leave you. Please, Tûra, there's no time. Where are you hurt?"

"I-" She faltered, and then she lowered her eyes and lifted Lula up to show Fíli her own forearms, wincing violently. Fíli's gut churned with rage and sympathy. He had been too late after all. When Tûra had raised her arms against the blow of the orc's axe, a blade had struck her arms, tearing away skin and sending rivulets of blood down her sleeves, and by now her arms were swelling, and greatly. He would not be surprised if both limbs bore broken bones.

"Mahal," he breathed, his hand reaching towards her, but then he stopped himself. "Let me carry her, Tûra. I swear, I will not carry her to harm, and I _will_ get you both to Una's Doors, but you must trust me. Please..."

Tûra whimpered, and bowed her head, kissing Lula's downy hair. Then, slowly, she offered her baby back to Fíli.

"That's it," he murmured, settling the infant on his hip. To his surprise, Lula did not protest his taking her, instead reaching up to wind his hair over her fingers and clinging to his tunic with her other hand. Her crying quieted a little, and Fíli held her close as he turned back to her mother. "Are you armed?"

Tûra pulled a small knife from her belt and offered it to him, but he shook his head.

"You keep that, just in case. Stay close, and keep low."

She nodded, following so closely that she was almost tripping on his heels as he crept towards the edge of the alley.

A couple of orcs whooped at the sight of an apparent easy target, but Fíli's sword flashed furiously, and he knocked the heads off of three foes with a single strike. He charged on, striking down any orc that dared stand in his way, and moving around Lula almost effortlessly. No weapon came close to her as he ripped a path through the edge of the battle, and the orcs that looked upon him fell back, cringing away from the prince that fought like a king of old, with a baby in the crook of his arm.

Untouched, Lula clung to him, her little eyes round as the full moon as they peeked over his shoulder at her mother. They tore down a side road, away from the battle, and Fíli led through twists and turns that took them deeper into the city. He swung around a corner and then skidded to a halt, twisting Lula around behind him as a spear tip rested an inch below his chin.

"Good reflexes," he said slowly, raising his eyes from the spear to the one who wielded it – a young woman of Dale with dark skin and darker hair, and an expression of pure horror. A small group of two dozen menfolk were cowering in the corner behind her, children mostly, besides a couple of women and elderly folk. The woman's spear fell from her hands, and Fíli caught it – rather awkwardly, given that his 'free' hand was already full with his sword.

"My Lord, I-"

"It's alright," he promised, pressing her spear back into his hand. "Are any of you wounded?"

The woman shook her head, but a child of four or five gave a whimper, and held out raw, gravel-rashed palms.

"They knocked me over," he said, and Fíli bowed his head.

"Then we will make them pay, but first we must get you to safety. How many of you can fight?"

The woman with the spear gave a small shrug, as did a couple of boys no older than twelve, and an elderly man. The others remained silent.

Fíli nodded slowly. "Alright… stay quiet, stay together – and follow me, now."

"Are we going to die?" the boy with the scraped palms asked, and Fíli shook his head.

"Not on my watch."

Slowly, he snuck to the edge of the alley, checking both ways before ducking out and ushering the others to follow him. He set off northwards, leading them through the back alleys of the residential area until they reached the outer walkways. There, he paused again. Leaving the paths between the homes of the mountain wold leave them exposed, easier targets, but it was the fastest way to Una's Doors.

It was the only way to Una's Doors.

He stepped out, and then began to run – slowly, that the others might have a chance of keeping up. Every footstep sounded too loud, and every infant's whimper seemed like a scream of 'here we are,' but no orcs beset upon them as they delved deeper into the mountain. Torches had been lit, but it was still very dark, and Fíli ordered the younger menfolk to lead their elders by hand in an attempt to avoid losing any of them over the edge of the walkways.

It took nigh on half an hour, but they were almost there, so close that Fíli could see the inconspicuous wooden door that led down to the halls, when a great screech tore over them.

He turned, eyes widening at the sight of fifty orcs tearing towards him, with three dozen angry dwarves sprinting after them. He caught sight of Óin, Glóin and Dana in the front line, but they were still a way behind their quarry.

"Run!" Fíli yelled, "Make for the door, run!"

The menfolk ran, children outstripping their parents as they pelted towards the door, but Tûra hesitated, reaching out for Lula with her swollen, bloodied arms.

"Fíli-"

Out of the corner of his eye, Fíli caught sight of a knife sailing towards them, and he pushed Tûra out of the way, down behind a nearby column. He leant down to press Lula into her arms, but another flying knife forced him to leap back, the child still tightly clutched in his arms.

Then, the orcs were upon them, and it was all he could do to keep the blades away from the baby. He felt weapons find their mark, felt them strike his neck, his chest, his back, and though his armour deflected their blows the pain was growing strong, and every orc he felled was replaced by another, more foul and eager than the last.

Gritting his teeth, he glanced over his shoulder, but he was too far away from Tûra to have any hope of delivering the baby to her. She was on her feet now, fighting desperately with the wild look of one relying on old memories, her eyes flickering constantly towards her child. Terror gleaned on her stricken face, and her arms shook violently, but she held her ground, and a small pile of corpses was building at her feet.

The orc's numbers began to dwindle as the dwarves that had pursued them hacked their way towards Fíli and Tûra with a roar, but as they did an orc drove his war hammer into Fíli's gut with such force that the prince doubled over, winded. With a wrenching twist, his sword was torn from his hand, and Lula screamed.

There was no time to gasp for breath. Fíli drove his fist up into the orc's chin, smashing his head into the orc's and watching the creature crumple. He kicked and punched and dodged, but the orcs that were now falling from his blows were beginning to get back up again, and he could not dodge everything. The strokes of the swords of his enemies were getting closer and closer to the baby – he needed a weapon, and he needed it now.

He stooped towards the ground, grappling for a corpse's sword, but it was kicked from his grip, and then a metal boot smashed into his chin, sending him sprawling back against the ground. With a triumphant cry, the orc surged forward, driving his sword down, and it was all Fíli could do to throw himself over Lula and pray the blade would not reach her.

But the blow never came.

He looked slowly up to find the orc hovering in the air above him, impaled on the end of Óin's new polearm. Breathless, Fíli grinned up at his cousin.

"Thank you."

Óin grinned back, tossing away the orc's corpse and holding his hand out to Fíli. "Ah, don't mention it, lad. Why, I've been looking out for you since you were smaller than that wee bairn!"

Fíli gave a breathless laugh, glancing down at Lula. She had stopped crying, but her little face was pale beneath her bright red cheeks. A sudden fear that she might be going into shock struck him, but then Óin let out a grunt, and his grip on Fíli's hand became a crushing vice, and Fíli looked back up. And his heart dropped down through his chest and he stopped breathing, fear shooting through him faster than one of Kíli's arrows, sharper than the edge of a knife.

Sharper than the end of the serrated scimitar that had burst out from the healer's chest.

 _"Óin!"_

There was a flash of red hair as Glóin spun around, beheading the orc that had stabbed his brother, and Fíli grabbed Óin's arm, easing him down to the ground and onto his side.

"Hold on," he gasped desperately, as Óin's bulging eyes found his. "You're going to be alright, Óin, everything's going to be fine."

A smile tugged at the corner of Óin's lips, even as he gazed down at the blood began seeping over his armour. "Ah, lad…" he choked. "You… know better."

Fíli's blood ran cold, and he shook his head desperately. This was Óin, _his_ Óin – his cousin, his kin, the dwarf who had tended his scraped knees and his broken limbs and his war-wounds, the only soul in the mountain save Dís who could get Thorin to take care of himself, the one they had all leant so heavily on. This was Óin, and he could not be dying.

"No, no, we'll get you help," he promised, seizing Óin's hand as it rose, trembling, towards him. "You're going to live, you're going to be fine."

Glóin crashed down to his knees beside them with a choked sob, taking Óin's other hand as Dana kept away the last straggling orcs.

"I'm here," Glóin choked, pressing Óin's hand against his heart. "I'm here, nadad." He did not beg, or demand that Óin stay with them, and he did not promise help, or healing. He just sat there, trembling with tears running down his cheeks into his beard and his arms wrapped tightly around Óin's, and the truth fell upon Fíli like an avalanche.

"No," he begged, knowing that there was no one there to be moved by his words, no one on earth that could stop what was coming. "No…"

"It's… alright, lad," Óin said, his eyes beginning to haze over. His grip on Fíli's hand was weakening. "Sulliglukhul, nê akhshum…" _It's alright, don't worry._ Slowly, his head shifted, and his eyelids fluttered as he struggled to fix his gaze on Glóin. "Nad…ad…ith…" 

"I'm here, brother. I'm here," said Glóin, a deep, aching sadness resonating from his voice. "You are not alone. I'm here."

Óin struggled to draw breath, his fading eyes flickering between Fíli and Glóin. "Amrali astun…"

 _I love you…_

Fíli felt tears burn at the back of his eyes. "Amrali astu, Óin," he said weakly.

"Amrali astu, 'undad," said Glóin, pressing his lips to his brother's forehead.

 _I love you, greatest of all brothers._

Óin closed his eyes, and Fíli bit down on his lip until he tasted the tang of blood in his mouth.

"Barak khazad," Óin breathed. "Khazad ai menu..."

And then he said no more.

Glóin let out a sob as Óin's body went limp, and his last, rattling breath gave way to silence, but Fíli could not move, not even to cry. He felt paralysed, like every inch of him was immovable, like his body was no longer his to control. Grief crashed down upon him like a tidal wave, and almost at once the anger flooded through him. They fought brutally within him, shaking his entire body, and a haze of red fury veiled his eyes.

He wanted to kill, to tear his way through orc after orc, to slaughter thousands upon thousands, until the enemy knew just a fraction of what he felt, of the hole that Óin would leave. He would tear them limb from limb with his bare hands, rip out their throats his teeth if he had to, he would kill until there was no one left to die –

A small hand hit his cheek, clumsily wiping away his tears, and Fíli jumped violently, glancing down. Lula was silently staring up at him, her soulful eyes meeting his with an intensity that stole his breath. She was no longer screaming or crying, but tears still trailed down her face as she stretched up her tiny little arms to press her palm to Fíli's other cheek. He knew she was a baby, that she could barely grasp the concept of life, let alone death, but in that moment, he felt that she understood everything.

He bit back a sob, and strengthened his resolve.

"Glóin…" his words stuck in his throat as Glóin looked up, his eyes brimming with rage and anguish. Fresh tears spilled from Fíli's eyes, and he shook his head slightly. "I will be back. I won't let this go unavenged but I-"

"Go," said Glóin gruffly. "You get that baby someplace safe. Go."

Nodding, Fíli held Óin's hand close for a final moment, before resting it over his chest and rising to his feet. For a moment, his knees swayed beneath him, but he drew back his chest and held Lula close, turning back towards Tûra.

Her arms were trembling, tucked tight against her chest, but it was sorrow in her eyes, not pain, as she looked at Óin. She glanced up at Fíli, but when she met his eyes she looked away, closing her eyes. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Fíli stepped towards her.

"Wait!" Dana seized his arm from behind, and then pulled him into a fierce hug, baby and all. Then, she pressed his sword into his hands, and a kiss to his forehead. "Don't you let them hurt you too, Fíli."

He nodded, and then turned to Tûra, gesturing towards the door. She nodded back, picking her way through the bodies to his side.

Even as it ripped apart his heart, Fíli walked away from Óin and Glóin, ushering Tûra through the small, wooden door.

No orcs had yet reached the hallways leading down to the Sanctuary, but guards were positioned every forty yards, and they sent back a call to the doors, so that by the time Fíli and Tûra reached them, Una's Doors were open.

Fíli bowed his head to the guards as he ushered Tûra inside. Though he had feared that he would find a swarming haven of panic, Fíli found that the guards of Una's Sanctuary had already begun to organise the frightened refugees, and the atmosphere was surprisingly, jarringly calm. So calm, in fact, that he was almost tempted to follow logic and leave Tûra and Lula with the nearest healer, but something stopped him. It was an odd feeling, a small tugging in his gut that somehow made itself known amidst all his anguish and anger, a feeling that would not be ignored.

Before tonight, Fíli had promised himself that the next time he saw Tûra, he would ask if she wanted to take tea with him, or perhaps go for a stroll in one of Bilbo's gardens. He liked her, and she was easy to talk to, and he wanted to get to know her better. That all seemed so trivial now, but it still seemed wrong to leave her and her child in the care of a stranger. Putting Lula down at all was a surprisingly unpleasant thought.

To his relief, however, he did not have to fight long between logic and conflicting emotions. He was saved by a friendly, albeit drawn and worried, face, when he caught sight of Svana, Soren and Bragi's mother.

"This way," he murmured to Tûra, leading her towards the other woman. When Svana noticed him making a line towards her, she gasped slightly, putting her hand over her mouth.

"Fíli," she breathed. "Oh, look at your face… Are you much hurt?"

He shook his head, unable to help smiling slightly at her concern. "It's a fleshwound."

"Well, your mother's not going to be too happy about it," Svana said, but though her tone was easy, her voice was trembling. "Bragi and Ragan, have you seen them, are they with you?"

Fíli could not help but lower his eyes. There was so little hope on Svana's face, and he could not see any more of it drain away. This was only the second time he had since her since Soren died. "They are not with me. Last I saw Ragan he was bringing a large group of folk here from the market, and Bragi – we were separated. He is with Ehren, though. They were both unharmed, when I saw them last."

"Ah," said Svana softly, lowering her own gaze. "Would that I had skill with a blade, I – well, that can't be helped now… I'm sorry, I've been terribly rude."

Fíli shook his head slightly, clearing his throat. "No, that is on me. Svana, this is Tûra and Lula, they're friends of mine. Tûra, this is Svana – she is a friend as close as family. Tûra was injured in the battle, Svana, she needs to see a healer, and to have someone hold Lula for her. Would you look after them for me?"

"Of course," said Svana sympathetically, wincing a little at the sight of Tûra's arms. "Of course, I'll make sure you're both taken care of. Fíli, you… you be careful, alright pet? And if, if you see my boys…"

"I will do everything I can," he swore, and Svana smiled weakly, standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

Tûra stepped forward, putting her hand on Fíli's arm. Her touch was as gentle as a butterfly's, but he was sure that even that contact must be painful. "Thank you," she murmured. "If you hadn't… thank you, Fíli. Thank you. _Thank you._ And I'm – I'm so sorry."

A lump rose in his throat, and his breath caught, but he bowed low. "You're most welcome. It was my honour." Fíli looked down at Lula and smiled sadly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "It was my honour." He turned, and passed Lula into Svana's waiting arms. Lula gave a spluttering cry of protest, trying to cling to Fíli's braid, but he eased her fingers apart and stepped out of reach, and she let out a wail.

"It's alright," Tûra murmured, pressing a kiss to her daughter's little forehead and stroking her hair. "Ama's here, Ama's here, sulliglukhul."

But Lula reached kept crying, reaching towards Fíli. He smiled sadly. "Goodbye, Lula. Tûra. Svana. If the Valar allow it, I will find you after the battle. Long may you endure here, if all else fails."

The women nodded gravely, but Lula just cried, squirming in Svana's grip and stretching out almost desperately for Fíli. With a great effort, he turned away, and strode back towards the great doors. He took a deep breath, and nodded at the guard to open the gates.

"Fíli? Fíli! Wait!"

He paused, glancing back through the crowd to see his old friend Jari running towards him, his sister Aria at his heels. They were both still in their bedclothes, but swords hung from belts hastily fasted around their waists. Flanking Aria were Lani and Kenai, the two wolves of Erebor who had not chosen to go to the Shire for Frodo's party. Aria dealt with animals, and Jari was a craftsman by trade – neither of them were warriors, and he doubted either had picked up a sword since the last time they left the mountain.

"We heard the gate has been bought down," said Jari breathlessly. "Is it true?"

Fíli paused, glancing around. Causing a panic would be disastrous, but he could not lie. Not to Jari. "There is a portion of the wall that has been broken through," he said carefully. "But the enemy doesn't have free entry to Erebor, not yet."

Jari and Aria exchanged a glance, and she nodded. "We're coming with you."

"No," Fíli said, the very thought of either of them on the frontline churning his gut. "There are folk here that need protecting, and you are not soldiers, you don't need to-"

"Ari was on patrol tonight," said Jari. "Near the gates. After midnight, he was due to be upon them."

Fíli's heart sank. With Austen, Auden and both of their parents already in the ground, he knew that nothing he said would persuade Aria and Jari to stay behind Una's Doors when their brother was out there. The horrors of war would not dissuade them, and their own vulnerability would not turn them back. The fact that Ari would want them to stay safe would mean nothing, and the fact that he could fight better than them both was irrelevant. He was their baby brother, and he was all that was left of their family.

"You know if I go out there, I will look for him," he said, not expecting much in the way of success.

Jari smiled sadly, squeezing Fíli's arm tightly. "And you know that if Thorin himself commanded me to stay, I could not do it. You know I have to try."

Nodding reluctantly, Fíli turned his eyes to Aria, who simply nodded, and put a hand on the back of Lani's neck. The wolf bowed down, allowing Aria to mount.

Fíli sighed heavily, and then nodded. "Alright. Come on, then. But if either of you dare die on me, I swear I will raise you from the dead to murder you myself."

"Understood," they chanted, sombre as death.

He pushed his way back out the door with the siblings on his heels, as well as a handful of dwarves who had shaken off the shock and armed themselves, prepared to leave Una's Sanctuary now their families were safe. It was a small group, of barely two dozen, but it was enough for Fíli to feel like he was bringing reinforcements. As he ran back towards the main city, towards the screaming and the plundering and the pillaging, he let his rage flow through him, let it fuel the fire in his heart, but not unbridled. He wanted to let it go to his head, but he could not. He needed his head, and he knew it.

Just like he knew that the battle for Erebor had only just begun.

 **Well that was an exceedingly long chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it and that it was not too repetitive. It was not the easiest chapter to write in many ways (I'm so sorry Oin, please forgive me!) but I think I'm happy with it. Please do let me know what you thought.**

 **Until next time, please do take care, and thank you for reading!**


	97. Chapter 97: Fight and Flight

**Hey all! Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I really appreciate it! Sorry for the delay with this one, it's a long chapter and took me a good while to finish. I hope you enjoy it all the same, and please do forgive my inevitable typos.**

 **Chapter Ninety-Seven: Fight and Flight**

Thorin staggered back from the great gates of his city, clutching his hand to his neck. Blood was pooling against his fingers, and a searing pain burnt beneath them, but when Balin ran towards him with fear in his eyes, the king shook his head.

"Thorin-"

"It's a flesh wound, it is not deep," he growled, peeling up his hand to allow his friend to see.

As Balin fussed, Thorin glanced back at the soldiers still holding the door. By now, the army outside were not _only_ barred from the mountain by a living wall of dwarves – Thorin's troops had managed to stack much of the rubble against the great gap, and stack it high. It would not hold to great force, and did little to deter the spider-like climbing of the goblins, but it was something, and sturdy enough for the warriors on the front line to stand upon it.

Their numbers were bolstered by thousands of regular folk; dwarves who had ripped swords down from walls, and axes from old wooden chests, and run to their aid of their city. Their skill was not insubstantial – all able-bodied dwarves were brought up learning to fight, especially after Smaug – but still Thorin tried to keep them from the frontline. Instead, he had teamed them with Bard's army, and tasked them with ushering the vulnerable into Una's Sanctuary like Fíli, or with moving further food stores into the bunker, where they could.

But Thorin knew that sooner or later, those regular folk would find themselves on the front line. Either that, or the front line would find its way to them.

"We cannot go on like this, Balin – we need a plan. Brute force will not win us this fight – he have not the strength, and we cannot hold broken gates forever."

"Aye," said Balin, his eyes still on Thorin's neck. "Aye, we need a plan alright."

Thorin cupped his hands over his mouth, roaring out orders in Khuzdul. The troops before him rotated, those who had been further back moving to the very front of the doors, and those who had borne the brunt of the enemy's attack falling back. Many were wounded, and swaying with exhaustion, and some were dragged away barely alive.

Thorin gave another shout, and at once Dwalin turned from the battle, running to the king's side at once with eyes that bulged with fear. "Thorin, your neck-"

"Is fine, we have more pressing concerns. We need a plan if we are to make it out of here alive, but I need someone I trust to stay here – will you lead the men while I am away?"

"Of course," said Dwalin sombrely, giving a quick bow. "I will not let them lose heart. But Thorin… you best be quick with this."

Thorin nodded, squeezing Dwalin's arm for a moment. Then, he turned. "Balin, come."

Sharing one last glance with his brother, Balin nodded, following Thorin to a nearby flight of stairs. With each step that he took up, Thorin's leg jolted in pain, the wound he had taken but moments into battle making itself known, but he gritted his teeth and ignored it. They did not have time for pain.

There was also no time to reach the royal chambers, no chance to get to Thorin's own office, so the nearest unoccupied guard room would have to suffice. As he limped his way towards it, Thorin saw dozens of corpses along the corridor – guards, mainly, though a few orcs were among them. Great hunks of rock and stone and rubble were strewn across the passage by the hole in their gate, reaching far down the passage, and Thorin thought of the poor soul who had survived to ring the war bell. They were not ringing it now, and he doubted they had the time to outrun the explosion at the gates. They were likely one of the corpses in the corridor, if they were not buried beneath the broken stone of the gate. Fury ground inside him, and he shoved open a nearby door. There was no one inside the guard room, but a map of the mountain was laid out on the table, and the lamps were still lit. It looked like someone had left in a hurry.

 _I wonder why,_ he thought darkly.

Balin shut the door behind them and Thorin sat down in the chair behind the desk, grunting slightly. He was getting far too old to do battle.

"So," he said, grabbing a bandage from the standard issue medicine box in the desk's draw and pressing it to his neck. "What in Durin's name are we going to do?"

"Well, let's look at the situation. The orcs outnumber us, near ten to one," said Balin, "and that's being generous with our numbers. And, apparently, they have a way to break through stone with fire – there's naught to say they won't throw down our doors again. They also have catapults, and though those have had little effect before, with the doors already weakened they may try again. We don't know _how_ they brought down the doors, for that should be impossible. Perhaps if we knew how they did it, we could stop it from happening again, but we don't."

"They have every advantage," Thorin admitted with a growl, glaring at the map.

"Not every advantage," said Balin slowly. "The first they did was clear the balcony, but if we re-positioned soldiers there now, we'd have some chance of reducing their numbers, and slowing the assault on the door."

"Náli said they came from above," argued Thorin. "They will wipe out anyone we place there."

Balin said nothing, the twitch of his mouth belying his frustration. Finally, he said, "Could we send some lads out the back door, have them watch over the gates, wipe out those that would wipe out us?"

"You've answered your own question already." Thorin could taste the bitterness of his words on his tongue. "The enemy have catapults, and archers, and above the balcony there is no cover. Any men we sent out would be dead before they could cover anyone. We could launch a troop out of the back door, and attack from another angle…"

"But we don't have the numbers, and fighting on two fronts would weaken us more than it would them," finished Balin, kneading his forehead with his fist. "There must be something… unless…"

Thorin raised his eyebrow, but pain shot across his forehead from the cut above his eye, so he scowled instead. "Unless what, Balin?"

"It's a long shot," said Balin slowly. "But I might have an idea as to how we can get some men onto that balcony without it being a mission of pure suicide."

"I'm listening…"

"Above the balcony the edge of the mountainside – if we were to set that alight, the orcs wouldn't be able to come down from above."

"And I presume you have some idea as to how?" said Thorin, frustration growing as Balin failed to get to the point. To his surprise, however, an almost sheepish look came across Balin's lined face.

"Aye…" he said. "There's an, um – well. A fuel I've been working on. It burns hot, but the flames will last a good while – an hour, at least. What's more, it's in form more of a jelly – if we paint it onto the mountainside it will cling there until it is all burnt through. If we call some of Nori's Watchers, have them climb the ropes left by the orcs and apply the fuel, it might just work."

Thorin shook his head, rubbing his jaw and looking carefully at his cousin. "This jelly… what's the catch? Something as useful as that… you'd have told me before now, unless it was unfinished."

Balin gave a tight smile. "When I say 'highly flammable' I mean it. The smallest spark can set it to light, but we haven't figured out how to put out the fire. Water is all but useless, and it burns through sand, if you try to smother it. If it gets on your skin it will stick, and if it catches light it will burn through flesh and bone alike. There's naught you can do at all until the fuel is burnt through. Then, and only then, will the flames go out."

Thorin winced, absently running his fingers over a pale burn scar he had received in the forges. "Will it drip? If it is above us?"

"It shouldn't do, not if we're careful. Not if the lads apply a thin layer – then it should stick."

Thorin gave a heavy sigh. "Well, I see no better plan. How long will it take to get ready?"

As it transpired, the answer to the king's question was 'not long.' Within twenty minutes, Thorin, Balin, and six nimble young dwarves from Nori's Watchers were standing behind the door out to the balcony. Further down the corridor, fifty of Thorin's best marksmen and strongest soldiers were standing by, and beyond the rubble, across the gaping hole in the gate were fifty more warriors, waiting by the further door to the balcony with bated breath.

"Remember lads," said Balin. "Be quick, and be _careful._ If you're sloppy with this jelly, you may well blow up the ones who come behind you, and that wouldn't do now. Especially given one of those men is the king."

The Watchers bowed as one, and then they peeled away, slipping through the door like shadows, and Thorin held his breath. The sound of the battle below raged in his ears, blurring and confusing sounds that were closer, and Thorin closed his eyes, straining for any sound that might tell him more clearly what was going on. Was that loud thump a Watcher falling to his death? Was that crash more of the door collapsing? Was that scream from someone he loved?

A torturous minute passed, and then another, and a third, until Thorin was fighting against the instinct to charge outside and determine the Watchers progress. He opened his eyes, met Balin's gaze.

Waited.

And then, a shout came from outside, a word that rose above all the rabble of the noise below. "Idrinat!"

 _Go ahead._

 _"Zû!"_ Thorin roared, charging out onto the balcony. The others followed, their tramping feet like thunder as they spanned the length of the gate. Nigh on twenty feet above them, long blue flames leapt out from the side of the rock, crowning the mountain with fire, and already the Watchers were standing along the balcony, their bows at the ready. "Now!"

With the smooth synchronisation of a machine, the dwarves drew back their arms at once, hurling flash-flames into the air and aiming for the main cluster of archers to the right of the mountain. Bright flashes of red and white flame sprang up amidst the dark huddle of orcs, and Thorin relished the screeching squawks of pain given up by the creatures as they burnt. Another wave of flash-flames were thrown at the orc archers, and then Thorin brought his own bow up, ready to shoot.

"Archers, ready!"

A soldier ran down the line on both sides of the fissure, slipping torches into brackets on the side of the wall as the archers took position. Thorin took an arrow, touching its tip to the top of the nearest flame. It caught like a match, the flame hissing and fizzling down the arrow shaft as he readied to shoot, and by the time he released the arrow it was entirely aflame. Even as he prepared the next, he watched with grim satisfaction as his first shot burst through the skull of an orc.

"Fire at will!" he roared, and a volley of flaming arrows rained down upon the army outside. Orcs and men alike shrieked at their falling, and a few answering arrows shattered against the mountainside, and Thorin counted every foe that fell.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Balin rolling a barrel twice his size down the balcony, and he stepped aside to give his friend the central position above the gates. A few soldiers stepped in, helping him ready the barrel, and Balin nodded.

"Warn the lads!"

One of the soldiers ran back into the mountain, bellowing down in Khuzdul to their kindred at the gate. A moment later, he shot back onto the balcony and yelled, "Zû!"

In one smooth, practised motion, two soldiers helped Balin lift the barrel and tip it over the edge of the wall. As they did, a third warrior threw a lit fuse into the thick, black liquid that poured from the barrel, and at once it caught light, splashing down onto their foes in a blend of oil and flame. The orcs shrieked and wailed in pain and fear, and Thorin relished the sound, watching the foul creatures scramble away from the door. A few fought through the flames, or tried to, but they quickly succumbed and Thorin grinned. That should give those dwarves the door a brief respite, and a chance to pile on more stone.

He continued to shoot, sending arrow after flaming arrow down into his foes. They did not seem to even dent the size of the army, but one of Bilbo's favourite phrases was 'slow and steady wins the race,' and a dead orc was better than a live one. Shot after shot he fired, ignoring the wrenching ache in his arms, and the growing pain in his leg and head.

Something in the battlefield caught his eye, an odd huddle of movement making its way towards the gates, and he paused. It was a small troop of heavily armoured orcs, and they were carrying something between them, something that Thorin could not quite make out. Whatever it was dark in colour, dark enough to blend in with the orcs and black armoured men around it, but somehow Thorin felt it was something he had not seen before.

"Balin, what is that?" he called, nodding his head towards it and cursing that his eyes were not as good as they once were.

"What is what?" his friend replied, face bright red as he threw missile after missile down into the fray.

Rolling his eyes, Thorin nodded again towards the shape. It was coming closer now, within fifty feet of the gate, and his gut curled comfortably. Something was wrong. He could make out a vague shape, almost like that of a great mace or a boulder, and it curled his gut. "That!"

"What?"

Thorin growled, lighting an arrow and pointing it straight at the form. "That!" he let loose the arrow, and it streamed, flaming, through the sky, and struck the object dead centre.

An explosion wrenched apart the air from the very moment of impact, the force of its energy shaking the ground beneath them and knocking a few dwarves from their feet. Thorin clutched at the battlements to keep from falling, the tremendous sound still ringing in his ears. It was on par with the volume and violence of the roar of a dragon, and the light from the blast had seared across his eyes like lightning, leaving him to blink away stars behind his eyelids.

But it was worth it – it was beyond worth it, for where the object had been there was now nothing but crumpled, smouldering corpses, and all the foes in a twelve-yard radius were dead on the ground.

"Well," said Balin, his voice rather high. "I think we've discovered how they took down the doors."

" _Look out for more of those things!"_ yelled Thorin in Khuzdul. " _We don't know how many of them our enemy has – if you see them, do not let them reach the doors of the mountain, not under any circumstance!"_

The dwarves beside him let out a cheer of understanding and assent, and he could feel their spirits lifting as the devilry of the enemy backfired. They shot with more determination than desperation, and jeered down at the orcs as they did. Some stuck to shooting, while others threw flash-flame after flash-flame. The little explosives looked like nothing beside the great blast of the orc weapon, but still killed more orcs at once than an arrow.

With a single-minded focus, Thorin kept shooting, his quiver constantly refilled by the errand soldier, his focus sweeping the battlefield for a sign of another weapon. He would not be surprised if the thing had been some black witchcraft of Saruman's – it could not be a coincidence that it reached their doors just one day after Mauhúr came to them, but if that was the case, it seemed odd that they would attack so soon, and not wait for a changed mind, or a ransom. He wondered if –

His thought cut off violently as something struck his shoulder with a strength that had him cry out. He staggered backwards, but his injured leg gave way, and he hit the ground, hard.

"Thorin!" cried Balin, even as Thorin pushed himself up, and shook his head, and stared at the arrow sticking out of his shoulder. "Tho-"

Thorin looked up sharply as his friend's cry cut off, and then felt the blood drain from his face. "Balin!"

A thick arrow shaft was sticking out of Balin's forearm, embedded dangerously deep, and he stumbled back, his hand rising in shock towards the arrow. Thorin scrambled up, ignoring the tugging pain of the arrow in his own shoulder to tug Balin down behind the battlements. His cousin was gasping in shock and pain, and Thorin reached up to a nearby Captain. The dwarf's eyes widened, and he ducked down for the moment.

"My lord-"

"I'm going to go and get this cursed thing out of my shoulder," Thorin growled. "It is not deep – I will return. Call for reinforcements when you need them, and keep the fires burning. Keep them back, now, and don't you let any of those explosives come close to our gates."

The Captain bowed, and Thorin rose, dragging Balin up and towards the door.

"I will send you reinforcements, and I will return," Thorin swore, striding back inside and using every muscle he had not to stumble again. He would not show weakness, not in front of his men and certainly not before his enemy. An equal stubborn pride seemed to have taken hold of Balin as he strode with him, but as soon as they were inside, his cousin's face crumpled, and he clamped his hand to the top of his arm around the arrow.

"This, this isn't good, Thorin," he said tightly. Balin's face was white as his hair, and tinged with grey, and his sleeve was growing turning from blue to a deeper red with every passing moment. "I can't feel my fingers – I think it's done some damage."

Thorin swore, taking Balin's shoulder gingerly in his fingers and twisting it to take a better look. Where the arrow in Thorin's shoulder did not seem all that deep, Balin had not been so lucky. The arrow had struck so deeply that it had gone straight through his arm – Thorin could see the bloodied metal of the tip poking out of the other side.

"This wouldn't have happened were you wearing armour," said Thorin pointedly, and Balin glared at him.

"Yes, thank you, mother."

Despite himself, Thorin smiled slightly. It had been a long time since he had acted the older cousin. His gaze returned to the wound, and his smile faded. "You've done a good job of it," he said, dragging Balin back into the guardroom they had used before, and tugging another bandage free of its box. Taking care to wrap around the arrow, Thorin bound his cousin's arm as best he could to slow the bleeding. Then, with great care, he cut the shaft of the arrow a few inches above Balin's skin, and secured the limb in a sling, binding it close to Balin's chest. "It's a miracle that it has missed your artery, and it would be a greater one if it has not caused muscle damage. We cannot remove the arrow here-"

"I know, I know, I could bleed to death. Very comforting."

Thorin pursed his lips. "I think you should retreat, Balin. Make for Una's halls, find a healer-"

"Not a chance."

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "A moment ago you thought you'd done real damage."

Balin glared back stubbornly. "And I'm sure I have. I am in considerable pain – but we have things to do, and this is not a battle I will bow out of, Thorin. It's my left arm, and I can fight with my right."

"Balin, if this is your choice… With a wound like that already, this choice could easily lead to your death." Thorin glanced down, and closed his eyes. "I would not lose you, Balin."

His cousin's good hand rested on Thorin's arm, and squeezed it gently. "I hope you won't. But if I retreat now, and the city falls, I will never forgive myself. And if _I_ fall, then I know it will be with honour. I will never regret dying in defence of my home. This _is_ my choice."

Looking back up, Thorin stared deep into Balin's eyes, and then he sighed. "Fine. Let's get on with it then."

"What about your shoulder?" protested Balin, and Thorin glanced at the offending wound.

It hurt, and intensely, but a simple prod from his thumb told him it was not too deep. No deeper than the head of the arrow, in fact. With his right arm, he reached up under his tunic and his armour, reaching up to find the wound. Gritting his teeth, Thorin closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the torn flesh of this shoulder until he could grasp the arrowhead. Balin cried out in protest, but Thorin ignored him, wrenching out the arrow with a growl of pain. He snapped the shaft in two, and the half sticking out of his armour clattered to the ground. The other half he drew out and examined for a moment, sniffing it suspiciously.

"It does not look poisoned to me, but time will tell," he supposed, meeting Balin's outraged glare. "Unlike you, I am wearing armour. It wasn't deep – the bleeding will stop soon."

"Bandage," growled Balin. "At the least. That's an order."

"We don't have time-"

"It'll only take a jiffy," said Balin firmly, pushing another white cloth into Thorin's hands. "Now."

"You're a damn nuisance, you know that?" replied Thorin, but even as he spoke, he acquiesced, winding the bandage around his shoulder without bothering to remove his armour. Every moment it took felt like a waste of time, but Balin stood stubbornly before the door, and did not move until Thorin was finished, and he was – apparently, satisfied.

"Right," he said. "Shall we go see how Dwalin fares?"

"My thoughts exactly," replied Thorin, striding out of the door. They hurried back down the corridor, and Balin made for the stairs down, but out of the corner of Thorin's eye he saw something move, and he paused.

Just a few yards away from them was the great hole in their gate, where the rock fell away to ruin, and piles of broken boulders were strewn across the corridor. By the hole itself they were highest, but the rubble stretched a good way, stoking Thorin's fury higher with every pebble. For a moment, it was hard to see what had moved, but then he saw it again, and his heart leapt.

There was a hand reaching out from the rubble, a dwarven hand, clawing against the ground, and Thorin burst forward, running towards it as fast as his injured leg would carry him.

"Balin, there's someone here!"

At the sound of his voice the hand stretched out further, waving so desperately that Thorin could see the poor soul's tendons stretching and shaking beneath the skin. He grabbed the hand and squeezed it gently.

"Hold on, we're going to get you out," he promised, glancing up at Balin gravely. If the dwarf beneath them had been trapped since the gates were blown, he had been there for well over an hour, and if the rock was crushing him, rather than simply pinning him down…

If the dwarf had already succumbed to blood poisoning, or if his lungs had been compressed for too long, or if the rocks were keeping an artery pinned, they had little chance of saving him. Thorin knew the horrors that came with such injuries, how many hundreds of things could go wrong.

But the fingers had some strength as they seized Thorin's hand. Far beneath the stone, he could make of the sound of grunting, the stuttering cry of the dwarf trying to speak, and then the hand let go of his own, and pointed left.

Thorin's eyes followed the direction of the fingers to another large pile of rocks, this one even larger than the first. Perhaps the poor soul was lying sideways, towards the left. Even if he was not, there was a great deal of rock above him, and Thorin glanced at Balin.

"I'll go get reinforcements," Balin said at once, racing away towards the stairs. The dwarf beneath the stone let out a muffled cry, and the hand reached out again, and Thorin squeezed its trembling fingers.

"It's alright, I'm not going anywhere." He patted the back of the hand and then stood up, moving the looser stones at the top of the pile, where he could. His shoulder screeched in pain with the effort, and he gritted his teeth, pulling down stone after stone. It was careful work, it had to be – if he moved the wrong rock at the wrong time, he could injure or even kill the dwarf buried beneath, and he knew it.

Careful as a surgeon, he moved a great deal of rock, and after a few achingly long minutes, he began to catch flashes of a guard's uniform, and glimpses of dusty blonde hair. When he could gauge the position of the body a little better, he focused on drawing away the rubble from his head and upper body, though he did not have time to glance at the guard's face. His survival was more important than his identity, and his survival may well be time sensitive.

As Thorin shoved a great boulder off of the dwarf's back, the poor soul dragged in a deep, choking breath. His neck, right arm and chest were free now, and the king moved onto his legs.

"Ink-" he gasped, his voice rasping with the effort. "Ink-"

"It's alright," said Thorin calmly, but as he rolled more rock away the guard squirmed, twisting his face up to meet Thorin's.

The king's heart clenched, painfully. He knew that battered face, those frightened eyes. Beneath the blood and the dust and the bruising, he knew who it was he stared at. He had known this guard for all his short life, had cradled him the very day after he was born…

"By Mahal," he breathed. "Ari…"

His late friends' son shuddered and nodded. "Ink," he choked, breaking off into a cough, before nodding towards his still buried left hand. "Ink."

Thorin's blood froze in a heartbeat, and understanding struck his heart like an axe.

Ari was not saying 'ink'.

"Vinca?" Thorin breathed, his heart dropping even further when Ari gave a pained nod, and gasped in another rasping breath.

Thorin stared in horror at the great pile of stone to the left of Ari. At its top was an enormous chunk of rock, larger than the corpse of a warg, and the king wanted to wail. Vinca was not a dwarf. If she was buried beneath so much stone, the chance of her still being alive…

A part of him knew he should wait for Balin, for reinforcements – he knew that he was already wounded, that he could do more harm than good, but even as these thoughts passed his mind he leant down, wrenching the stone away from Ari's arm.

One of his hobbits was trapped, and Thorin would wait for nothing.

He tore the stone aside to see a small, pale hand wrapped around Ari's – and then he saw the hand move, and pulse.

"Vinca?" he called, not caring if his voice sounded raw or desperate, not caring at all who heard. "Pervinca, can you hear me?"

The hand opened, though its thumb still clung to Ari, and Thorin's chest heaved with a sob.

"It's Thorin, I'm here," he said, taking her trembling fingers in his hand for a moment. "I'm going to get you out. Hold on." He began pulling at the smaller rocks around where her body must be, trying to clear something of a path, but then there was a horrific, grinding crunch, and the enormous stone on top shifted down.

From deep beneath the rock, Thorin heard a muffled scream, and Vinca's hand waved desperately for him to stop. He fell back, but somehow the stone was still sliding, the great chunk of rock grinding its way towards the ground. Thorin threw his hands beneath it, ignoring the shriek of his shoulder as he gripped the stone. He braced himself, but even that was near impossible. The weight of the rock was immense, and he was already wounded. He shifted his feet, trying to get a better stance, and then he heard Vinca scream again, her faraway voice brimming with terror and pain.

A surge of fear charged through Thorin's veins, and without pausing to think, he pushed with every muscle he had. Agony exploded in his shoulder, and his leg trembled violently, but still Thorin pushed. Slowly, half-inch by half-inch, the stone began to rise, and the sound of frightened whimpers grew clearer and clearer.

And everything else grew very dim, and very grey, and so very, very far away.

Thorin's entire body was burning, and his left leg was buckling beneath him. He could feel his arms being torn from his body, his back being struck like an anvil, and he could feel the warmth of his own blood as it began to flow more freely from his neck, and his shoulder, and his thigh. Darkness had clouded his eyes, broken only by fragmented flecks of moving light, and the sound of battle had melted away. His teeth began to grind against each other, clenched so viciously that pain shot through his entire jaw.

He lifted.

He pushed.

It rose, a little.

A little further.

And then Thorin's leg gave way altogether.

Gravity seized the stone, and wrenched it down, and Vinca screamed in terror. Thorin wrenched up with his left arm in a frantic attempt to offset the stone, to stop it from crushing her, but as he did, he felt the limb tear out of its socket. Roaring in pain, he threw his head back, and felt the stone sink beneath him. Blurry, disconnected sounds reached him – Vinca crying, Ari whimpering, someone far away yelling his name, but the pain was overwhelming. He could not see, or breathe, and he felt his eyes roll upwards towards the top of his head.

 _You let go now, and you kill her._

 _No._

Not Vinca, not his little hobbit.

Desperately, Thorin grappled for every last ounce of strength he could reach, and lifted. Agony screeched through every joint and socket of his body, and burnt through every vein, but he threw himself forward, heaving up the stone, and pushing, pushing -

And the stone tipped up, and rolled back, crashing to the ground with a great noise Thorin could hardly hear. His legs crumpled beneath him and he crashed to the ground, his entire being engulfed in pain. If he had freed Vinca, he could not say – he could not see, or hear, or breathe. His lungs ached for air, but he did not have the strength to draw breath, and for a moment all he knew was the pain wracking through him and the stars before his eyes.

And then he felt two slender, shaking arms wrap around his neck, and the tickle of curly hair against his cheek, and he found the strength to breathe. He could feel Vinca shaking and shuddering, he could hear her crying, and his uninjured arm wove around her, pulling her close.

"Thorin," she whispered, her small and breathless words music to Thorin's soul. "Uncle Thorin, Uncle Thorin..."

He tried to reply, to promise that he was here, and she was safe now, but breathing was still a struggle, so he settled for resting his chin gently on top of her head.

"What the devil was that?" yelled Balin, anger tight in his voice, but Vinca leant her head around Thorin's shoulder, and he heard a chorus of gasps, followed swiftly by the sound of running feet.

Vinca pulled back slightly and looked at Ari, and Thorin's eyes focused enough to examine her. There was a great lump on her forehead, and a smear of blood across her ashen cheek, and her shoulders and arms were soaked red.

"Ari," she whimpered. "Ari…"

"You're hurt," Thorin managed to gasp, but when his fingers brushed her bloodied blouse she blinked, and glanced down. Then, she looked at Thorin and whimpered.

"Thorin, your, your shoulder-"

"Vinca!" cried Fíli, and even as he did Jari let out a terrified scream.

 _"Ari!"_

Thorin glanced up to see Fíli racing over, Jari and Aria all but tripping over his heels. Behind them ran Glóin, Dana, Bragi, Ehren, and Ragan, and each of them bore a look of utter horror. A deep gash had been carved into the side of Fíli's face, and the leather above his armour was slashed in more places than Thorin could count. The others looked equally dishevelled, but no one limped, and they did not seem badly harmed. The two remaining wolves were at their side, the fur around their jaws matted with black blood.

Fíli skidded to a halt by the base of the rubble, and all but threw himself through the stone to Thorin's side as Aria crashed to the ground beside her brother, sending a spray of rubble in every direction, and Jari joined her less than a moment later. With a little sob, Ari reached for them, and as Aria took his hand, Jari began to stroke his brother's hair, murmuring softly in a trembling voice.

"You're alright, you're alright, we're here. It's alright, sulliglukhul, you're going to be fine, you're going to be fine, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here-"

"Vinca, are you injured?" asked Fíli urgently, and Thorin looked quickly back at the sobbing girl in his arms.

"I, I'm alright," Vinca stammered, her round eyes swimming with tears as they flickered between Thorin, Fíli, and Ari. "I, every, everything hurts but I don't, I don't think I broke, I don't, I don't – Ari, _Ari-_ "

"You're going into shock," said the unusually soft voice of Glóin, as he pulled off his coat and worked his way through the rock to Vinca, wrapping it around her and pulling her gently up out of Thorin's lap. "If you're not there already. Come on, let's get you out of these stones, there's a good lass, I've got you. We've got you know, it's alright now."

As Glóin moved away, Ragan hurried down beside Ari and his siblings, looking over what wounds the young guard had sustained. Fíli's eyes darted between Thorin's neck and leg and shoulder, and the king could see the fear burning in his nephew's gaze. He sent Fíli a wry smile, and then grimaced up at Glóin.

"Where's your damned brother when you need him?"

Those around Thorin stiffened, and he caught the look on Balin's face.

"No..."

Glóin hung his head and Fíli closed his eyes and turned his face away, and Thorin knew. He swallowed, hard, and bowed his head for a moment. He knew that he ought to speak, to say something, but what could he say? He knew the pain of losing a brother, of having your closest kin torn from you in battle, and the idea that Óin was gone was more than he could bear. He wanted to wail, to beat his chest and scream, but he could see Fíli trembling a little, struggling to hold it together, and he could see the agony etched into Glóin's face.

He had to be strong, now. He was the king, after all.

"I'm sorry, Glóin," he said, with as much strength as he could manage. As he did, he reached out with his good arm and squeezed Fíli's hand.

There was a pause, and then Ragan spoke softly. "Ari's wrist and ribs are broken, and badly. I think that's the worst of it, but I wouldn't be surprised if there's more. He needs to get to a healer, now."

Vinca sobbed, crumpling back against Glóin and reaching towards Ari, who offered a pale smile, and his bloodied right hand.

"'s… right," he coughed. "You're… 'live…"

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, but then she looked quickly back at the king. "Thorin – Thorin's hurt, you're hurt!"

"I'll be fine," he said, as smoothly as he could. He tugged at the bandage around his leg, pulling it tighter. Then, he poked his shoulder warily, wincing at the fire it invoked. "Glóin, you know how to reset a dislocated arm – help me."

Glóin nodded, easing Vinca into Dana's waiting arms, but when he reached Thorin's side his eyes bulged. "What the hell did you do?"

"I moved the rock," said Thorin, trying not to growl. "Just pop it back in-"

"You're bleeding, badly!" protested Glóin, and Thorin's nostrils flared.

"I am aware of that. Please, Glóin."

Glóin hesitated. "Did you get shot before or after you wrenched your arm out of place?"

"Before, nigh on half an hour ago," said Balin, before Thorin could speak.

"If try to reset the bone, I could do more harm than good," Glóin worried. "Moving the flesh around such an injury… Óin… Óin could, but I…"

"Leave it," said Fili strongly. "Thorin, you need a healer as much as Ari and Vinca, and Balin too. Take them back to Una's Sanctuary, see to your wounds there."

Thorin shook his head. "The others must go, but I cannot leave. Not now, not in the heat of battle."

"You can, and you will," said Fili sternly, his voice holding the rolling command of thunder. "Thorin, you will not hearten the army if you drive yourself to death! Go and see to your wounds, then return to the battle. I doubt it will be over. Glóin, Dana, Balin – you accompany Thorin, Ari and Vinca back to Una's Gates."

"Jari," whimpered Ari suddenly, but Jari shushed him, pressing a kiss to his brother's forehead.

"Obviously we're coming with you," he murmured. "Aria and I aren't leaving your side; Fíli only didn't say because it's obvious. We're not going to leave you, nadadith, never, ever."

For a moment, Thorin was stunned into silence. When had Fili become so grave, so grown? He shook his head slightly, ignoring the pain that caused.

"The people need a leader, Fíli, they need their king. They need me to rally them."

But Fíli did not back down. His jaw raised slightly, and his shoulders drew back, and he looked like a great king of old – grim, and noble, and fair. "They will rally. They will rally to me."

Thorin felt a lump rise in his throat, and his heart wavered. Fíli was right – the people would rally to him. They adored him, and he was more than capable as a fighter. Of course the people would rally to him, to their lion prince.

But that would put Fíli – Thorin's little Fíli – straight onto the front line.

Biting down his fear, Thorin swallowed, and took a deep breath. Then, slowly, he nodded, and rose onto trembling legs. Glóin pressed a staff into his hands, and Thorin leant against it heavily, limping towards his nephew. Not caring who could see or what was proper, he put his hand against Fíli's cheek, drawing him closer until their foreheads touched.

"Very well. But I will return to this battle, and I expect you to be ready to take rest when I do," he said, sinking his fingers into Fíli's hair. "I love you, Fíli."

Fíli closed his eyes for a moment, a small, pale smile spreading across his face. "I love you too, Thorin. I'll see you soon."

Thorin nodded, drawing back, and Fíli bowed low. Jari lifted his brother gently from the floor, cradling him in his arms, and Dana wound her arm around Vinca's waist, taking most of the young hobbit's weight. There was still the frightened glaze of shock in Vinca's eyes, and Thorin tried to smile at her.

"We'll take the shortest path," he promised. "This way."

His heart growing heavier with every step that he took, he led the small group away from Fíli, watching over his shoulder as his nephew returned down the stairs with Ehren, Bragi and Ragan on his heels.

 _Please, please let them be alright,_ he prayed. _Let Fíli survive, Mahal, please, let him survive._

The wolves followed Thorin's group, but he was not surprised. If ownership were as simple as it was with dogs, Lani and Kenai would both be described as Aria's, and they rarely left her side at the best of times, let alone in the midst of a battle. They hurried down the corridor, and the wound in his shoulder tugged painfully. Between his silent prayers for mercy, he cursed the arrows of the orcs.

And then he froze.

Arrows.

Elves.

Shit.

"Balin, did you see any elves in the melee, or on the balcony?"

Balin stopped dead in his tracks, and he shook his head slightly. "No, I didn't."

Thorin swore. Tauriel was not the type to run from a fight, and the guest rooms that she and Elbeth had been given were just off this balcony. That they had not been seen did not bode well. He hurried along the corridor, the others jogging and stumbling behind him, until he saw the door he was looking for, and his heart sank. It was ajar.

"Stay here," he ordered Jari, Aria and Dana, motioning for Balin and Glóin to follow him. The wolves raised their hackles, but lingered by Aria's side, and Thorin pushed open the door.

He drew his sword, more out of habit than anything else. If the orcs had been through those rooms, there was no reason for them to linger there like jack-in-the-boxes.

The first thing he saw was the corpse of an orc, strewn across the floor, its eyes open and unseeing, its black blood pooled beneath his throat. Looking up, he saw three more orc bodies, and two empty beds.

But the bedsheets were red, where once they had been white.

And the elves were nowhere to be seen.

Thorin cleared his throat. "Tauriel? Are you here?"

To his utter astonishment, a small, weak voice made reply, and a bloodied hand raised from the other side of the bed. "Here…"

Dread growing in his heart, Thorin staggered around the bed, the clunk of the staff ringing like a death knell in his ears as he went. The moment he saw Tauriel, his heart sank straight to his boots.

She was sitting up against the side of the bed, her head lolling weakly on her shoulder, and as they found Thorin her eyes were a haze of confusion and pain. The bodice of her nightgown was crimson red, and torn in several places, the gashes in the fabric looking decidedly like the blows of a knife. On the side of her neck was a deep, jagged wound, still oozing blood, and her skin was so pale that Thorin felt he could see through it. Short, jagged knife wounds littered her forearms, and there was a great pool of blood beneath her.

Sprawled on the ground beside her, with her head cradled in Tauriel's lap, was Elbeth. Her eyes were closed, and a line of blood ran out of her open mouth, and Thorin was sure that she was dead. Like Tauriel, her bodice was torn, and soaked with blood, and her gown was ripped along the bottom. Black orc blood was smeared over her feet and hands, and by her limp fingers lay a small knife.

Thorin could not believe that either of them had spoken, but Tauriel's bloodied lips cracked open, and she spoke again, her voice weaker than a sickly infant.

"We got… them all…" she said, her eyes closing as her face pinched in pain. "Sur…surprised…"

"We were all surprised," replied Thorin, only a little shocked to feel the lump in his throat. "Come, let's get you out of here, to a healer."

"Dwarven healer?" Tauriel mumbled, a slight smirk tugging at her lips even as her words slurred together. "Doomed…"

"Very funny," drawled Thorin, not missing a beat. "Balin, grab something to wrap around her chest. If we can slow the bleeding…"

"And grant a bit more modesty," said Glóin, the teasing in his words nulled by the heavy sorrow of his tone. "Never seen an elf in a nightgown, before."

Tauriel's eyes opened a crack to find him, but the glare was so weak that it did little to comfort Thorin. She did not protest as Balin hurried over with a long scarf, and as Thorin pulled her forward so that Balin could reach behind, her head fell onto his shoulder.

"Alright, then," he murmured, as Balin tied off the scarf. "Let's-"

"Elbeth," she whispered, looking up beseechingly at the king. "Please…"

With a heavy heart, Thorin glanced down, and put his fingers to Elbeth's neck. Her skin was warm to the touch, and after a moment he felt a small flutter, like the beat of a fading butterfly's wings. She was alive – barely.

"Balin-"

"Here!" said Glóin, thrusting another scarf into the king's hands, and helping raise the elf's torso off of the ground. They bound her chest as quickly as they could, but soon, the scarves too were red.

"We must move," said Thorin, trying to get Tauriel to meet his eyes. "Now. You need healing, we cannot linger here. Come, let's go. Come now. Glóin?"

Glóin sighed heavily, and for a moment Thorin thought he was going to grumble, but then he rolled up his sleeves, and glanced at Thorin and Balin. "Balin, you ought to take Vinca, if you can. Neither of you have the strength to carry a full grown elf, get Dana."

Balin nodded and hurried out, and Glóin stepped forward, studying the elves for a long moment.

"I'm afraid this won't be the most comfortable of journeys for any of us," he said, crouching low and carefully slinging Elbeth over his shoulders, before standing back up carefully.

On any other day, in any other place, Thorin would have found the sight hilarious. The elf was so much taller than Glóin that her fingers and toes brushed the ground on either side of his body, but today there was nothing funny about it.

Tauriel's face pulled into a feeble look of fear. "You'll… hurt… her."

"Naught else to be done, lass," said Glóin sadly. "I can't carry her in my arms, there's too much of her. I'll do my best not to hurt her, now."

Dana and Balin hurried into the room, and Dana's face grew ashen.

"By the Valar," she breathed, glancing at her husband. "Glóin…"

"Can you take Tauriel?" asked Thorin, and Dana nodded hesitantly.

"Of course, I… Forgive me, Tauriel, but this won't be a comfortable journey."

Once again, a tiny trace of a smile tugged at Tauriel's cheek and she nodded a little, but as Dana walked forward and pulled the elf over her shoulders, Tauriel let out a small cry of pain.

"I've got you, pet," Dana murmured, even as she shifted the weight more evenly over her shoulders. "I've got you."

Tauriel did not reply. Worry growing stronger in his heart, Thorin hurried back out of the door, leaning more heavily on the staff by the moment. It was not particularly quick, the pace that they set through the halls. Aria was supporting Vinca, her arm around the hobbit's waist to take her weight, and Vinca's head was nestled against Aria's shoulder. Jari, of course, had his brother cradled in his arms, and Glóin and Dana were carrying the injured elves. With the addition of Thorin's leg and Balin's bound arm, no one was moving fast, but they hurried as much as they were able.

No one spoke, and the tramp of their feet sounded all too loud in Thorin's ears. Also loud was the sound of the staff striking the ground with every step that he took, and then Thorin made the mistake of looking at it.

It was not really a staff at all – it was a spear.

Óin's spear, to be exact.

Thorin felt a lump grow in his throat, and he glanced at Glóin, who closed his eyes and looked away. Steeling himself, Thorin hobbled faster, taking the lead of the group and hurrying down the hall as best he could.

But as he turned a corner to the straightest path to Una's Gates, he saw a glow of flame, and he froze in fury.

"The bastards are burning my city!" he snarled, even as he stormed through an arch to cut off the road. "This way!"

But the next road he tried to take was also wreathed in flames, and he was forced to lead in a different direction, one closer to the Royal Chambers. It was a longer way around, but it should still get them there.

And then, from behind, came the cry he had been dreading. "Thorin, Tauriel will not wake!"

Thorin paused, and took a step back towards her, but then the wolves growled, and their hackles raised, and Aria gasped.

"Orcs! That, that means orcs!"

"Move!" ordered Thorin, ushering the others past him. "Balin, lead, move now! Fast as you can, do not wait for me! Go, go!"

Desperately, the others began a hobbled run, stumbling forward, and Thorin took up the rear. He could hear the orcs behind him now, hear their cackling growing closer. So close, in fact, that he could hear their words.

 _"This way, this way! I can smell blood in the air!"_

Thorin tumbled around a corner after the others, only to find that they had halted. Before he could protest, he realised where they were, what staircase they had come upon, and why Balin was looking at him expectantly.

"Go," he barked, nodding up the stairs to the Royal Chambers and hurrying towards them as fast as he could. There was no time now, no time for Una's Gates, and the Royal Chambers would offer them refuge for a good while at least.

 _Unless they have any of those giant flash-flames,_ said an unpleasant thought in his head. The Guards of the Royal Chambers were already helping to carry the elves upstairs, but just as Thorin reached the base of the stairway the orcs rounded the corner behind him, and squawked with glee. There were nigh on a hundred of them – how so many had escaped the dwarven army, Thorin could not tell, but they had, and they charged forward with hungry eyes.

Thorin turned to face them, and the six soldiers outside the healing halls rallied around him and before him, lowering their swords.

"Go, your majesty!" one yelled. "We will hold them, go!"

Thorin paused, gazing at the black-bloodied tip of Óin's spear. His cousin was dead. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of his people were dead.

And he would not flee.

He turned, lowering the spear as the orcs charged forwards –

 _"Thorin!"_ screamed a voice, and he looked at the top of the stairs in shock. Dís was hanging out of the doorway, her face white as a ghost and taught with fear. She thrust out her hand frantically towards him, and cried out again. "Nadad, _khasamhili_!"

 _Brother, please._

Thorin glanced back at the spear, and then turned, dragging himself up the stairs.

"Retreat!" he ordered the guards. "This way, quickly! Get inside!"

The guards scurried up the stairs after him, and Dís dragged Thorin inside. The guards flooded in afterwards, and the last to reach the top slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily. Only moments later, they heard the pounding of the orc fists against the stone, but Thorin was able to breathe for a moment.

 _It'll take you a while to break down that door,_ he thought with grim satisfaction. Aside from Una's Sanctuary, there was no safer place in the city.

Unless, of course, the orcs had the giant flash flames.

And if they did, Thorin had just led a hundred orcs straight to the heart of his family.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter, it was a mammoth one! The next one probably won't be next week as I'm away, but we'll see. Please do let me know what you thought, I really appreciate it!**

 **Until next time, do take care!**


	98. Chapter 98: The Storming of the Palace

**Hey everyone! Thank you for the lovely reviews to the last chapter! I'm sorry this one is so late – I was on holiday, and then I came down with a horrible cold (yay.) Anyways, it's here now, so as ever please do forgive any typos that my sniffling and sleepiness may have caused.**

 **Chapter Ninety-Eight: The Storming of the Palace**

Dís heart hammered heart against her ribs as she ushered the chaos in her entrance hall further down the corridor. What had happened to bring her brother here, or how a hundred orcs had got into the mountain to be able to bang on their door, she did not know, but she knew what she had to do. She had never had the luxury of panicking in a crisis, and being pregnant had never granted her an exception before.

"Everyone, into Kíli's bedroom! There's no real healer among us and I doubt we'll be getting one, so we need to pool our knowledge," she called, loud enough for those at the front to hear her. "Bilbo, run ahead, throw down some blankets for the elves." Pausing only long enough to draw in breath, Dís glanced at the guards around her. "You two, I want you to check the escape passages, make sure they're secure, and you three, stay on the door. If there's any change, alert us at once. Kyrri, in Kíli's kitchen there's a large medicine chest – bring it to the bedroom, stick it on the trunk at the end of the bed. Mikel, Colburn, wash your hands, do it well – you'll be healing. And Nali, go to Kíli's kitchen and start boiling water, every pot every pan, every kettle you can get. The rest of you, stay alert and in earshot – see if you can get a way to get eyes on outside, and make sure the entire quarters are secure."

The bedraggled group bustled quickly down the corridor, and Dís looked quickly at her brother. Leaning heavily against a long staff and covered head to toe in bloodstains, he limped along at the back of the group. More worryingly, he also let her order the guards without so much as a flicker of complaint in his eyes. She swallowed.

She knew what she had seen from the door, how close Thorin had been to leading a suicide charge. How close her big brother had come to leaving her.

 _But he still chose not to_ , a voice in her head murmured softly. _He chose to stay with you. To stay for you._

Pursing her lips, Dís put a hand on his arm, and he smiled down at her grimly.

"You're injured," she murmured, looking at the blood-soaked bandage around his throat, of all places. There was another concentrated area of blood over his shoulder, and she could see the broken clothes above a stab wound on his thigh. "Thorin…"

"I'll be fine," he promised, stroking her cheek gently as they walked. "Nothing but a few flesh wounds."

Dís did not believe that for a second, but she did not have the time to protest. Instead, she followed the whirlwind of blood and fear down the hallway, and through Kíli's quarters, ushering Thorin before her onto the bedroom. She paused at the door, meeting Kíli's wide, startled eyes, and she swallowed. Then, she took a deep breath and pushed her way inside.

"Kyrri, have you got that chest yet?"

"Right here, my lady," replied the guard. Behind him, Jari made to put Ari down on the floor, but Kíli shook his head.

"Jari, put him here," he said, patting the bed beside him, even as he searched the room with confusion wrought into his brow. She too longed to know what on earth was going on, but they needed to act first.

"Mikel," she said, "you help Jari and Aria with Ari and Vinca, and Kyrri, you look over Lord Balin. Colborn, see to your king."

Thorin frowned, glancing over at her, but Dís raised her eyebrows and nodded towards the chair beside Kíli's bed. With a soft snarl, Thorin nodded once, and eased himself back into the chair. Offering him a quick smile, Dís nodded, and rolled up the sleeves of her dressing gown. "Bilbo, Glóin, Dana – we'll take the elves."

"Aye," said Glóin, already peeling away the blood-soaked bandages around Elbeth's torso. "If Thranduil finds out we've lost the both of them it'd be a political disaster."

"Thranduil be damned," growled Thorin, and Dís glanced up to see him glaring at the elves. "They our friends – they came here to aid us, at risk of their own lives. Even before that, we owe Tauriel a greater debt than we will ever be able to pay."

Dís felt a lump rise in her throat, and as a murmur of assent ran around the room, she found that she did not have the strength to add her voice to it. All she could do was kneel by Tauriel's side. She knew full well what debt she owed to Tauriel.

She knew that Tauriel herself had administered much of the healing to Kíli after the Battle for the Beornings, and she knew that without Tauriel, Bilbo would never have survived the Battle of the Five Armies.

Dís would never have even met him.

And now Tauriel was unconscious before her, in a room where not one soul could claim more knowledge in healing than the basic training of a soldier, or that of a healer's brother.

Taking a deep breath, Dís met Bilbo's eyes. He swallowed, and nodded once at her, and ran to the healing chest, collecting bandages and small bottles of salves in his arms.

"What can you tell us, Thorin?" she asked, her fingers pressing into the side of Tauriel's neck. She could feel a pulse, but it was weak.

"There are multiple stab wounds on her torso, and a deep gash in her neck. You'll want to undo those bandages, check and rebind the wounds – the scarves were crude, but all we had time for."

Dís nodded, beginning to untie the knot that had been so hastily bound around the elf's chest. Bilbo deposited his spoils at her side, and then hurried to the kitchen. By the time Dís had unwound the scarf, he was back, with a small pan of warm water and a handful of tea-towels.

"I'm afraid the tea you asked for will have to wait, my darling," he said, smiling weakly at Dís. "It's a good thing I couldn't find where Fíli put the tea leaves."

She smiled back, but as she did, she pulled back the blood-soaked scarf, and the smile fell from her face.

"By the Valar," breathed Bilbo, putting down the pan of water with trembling hands.

Seven times a knife had been plunged into Tauriel's chest, and each of the seven wounds was still oozing blood. On the right side of her neck was a deep gash, one that was utterly unmistakable. Someone had tried to slit her throat.

Taking a deep breath, Dís soaked one of the towels in hot water and began to dab at the nearest wound, clearing away as much of the excess blood as she could. It was one of the deepest – a cruel, jagged gash that stretched deep beneath her right breast, tearing open her flesh by at least two inches across a line as long as Dís' hand. A deflected blow, Dís guessed, though she did not dwell on how the wound was won. Instead, she cleaned it as best she could, and moved swiftly onto the next, as Bilbo did the same on the other side.

"Do you think it's worth using ointments?" asked Glóin from behind her. "They're elves, after all – do they need them?"

"I don't know," she replied. "But they deserve every chance we can give them. Use the best we have."

The smell of blood began to turn Dís' stomach, and one of the babies gave a kick as if in protest as she took a deep breath, and willed her hands to stop shaking. The primal instinct within her was to run, and quite possibly vomit, but she did not have the time for such selfishness.

Tauriel did not have the time.

Soon their hands were covered in blood, and each time that Tauriel's chest rose and fell with her shallow breaths, fresh blood bubbled up through her wounds, but Dís and Bilbo kept going, until they could smear a little ointment around the edges of the wounds.

Finally, Dís called out, "Nali, I need clean water!"

Within moments, Nali ran over, another small saucepan in hand, and Dís washed her hands quickly, drying them on a final clean towel. Bilbo did the same, and then they glanced at each other.

"How… there's so many…" murmured Bilbo, but Dís took a deep breath.

"I have an idea – but I will need your hands."

Bilbo nodded, and Dís set to work, folding several soft dressings over themselves to add a little height, and then covering each wound with the fabric. Then she took a roll of bandages, and called to the guards.

"Nali, Kyrri, I need you to lift Tauriel's torso up so I might get underneath her – support her head, don't let her neck tip back. Bilbo, insofar as you can, hold the dressings in place," she said, and Bilbo nodded.

As the guards raised Tauriel from the ground, Dís wove the bandages around her, winding between her breasts and over her shoulder, then underarm and around her chest and then down to her abdomen, so that each and every one of the dressings was pressed firmly against her skin. Once or twice, she almost bound Bilbo's fingers as well, but after a few minutes, Tauriel's entire torso was bound with white cloth. A few spots of red peeked through, but Dís wove around the bandages again for good measure.

A quick glance told her that Dana and Glóin seemed to have thought along the same lines for Elbeth, though she also now bore a white bandage around her head.

Dís ordered Nali to bring more water, and washed her hands again, and then she moved onto Tauriel's arms, cleaning and binding the smaller wounds that littered them as Bilbo dressed the wound on her neck. As she worked, Dís began to put together the picture of the brutal story that the elf's wounds wove. The neck wound had probably come first, given the deliberate angle of it, and how short it was. The orcs had attacked while she slept, then, and Tauriel had woken to the pain. She had fought – the distinctive marks of defensive wounds made up the entirety of the damage to her arms – but she had no weapon, and some of the blows had got through. Seven, to be precise. She had probably been lying on her back the whole time.

How Tauriel had managed to win such a fight, Dís could not imagine, but somehow, she had. Though she had not had a moment to look at Elbeth's wounds, Dís had no doubt that they were similar, yet somehow, the elves had survived.

Somehow, they were still breathing.

"What… what else can we do?" Dís murmured, leaning back as she finished dressing final wound, and Bilbo looked up, a hollow sort of fear in his eyes.

"I - I think that's all we can do," said Glóin, his voice low. "We can't give them a tonic to strengthen them unless they wake, and I know of nothing else we might do to help heal such wounds as these..."

"But the elves," protested Bilbo, "they gave Fíli droughts and potions in Mirkwood when he lay unconscious, and they gave them to Paladin too!"

"And they gave such potions to you and Fíli following the battle of the five armies," said Glóin, "but I don't know how. They must have a way of encouraging the unconscious to swallow, but it's not a trick I know. I don't even know if Óin did. I fear if we tried, we'd do more harm than good."

"But, but there has to be something," begged Bilbo, looking desperately from Glóin to Dís to Kíli. "We, we can't give up now!"

"We're not giving up." Dís felt a lump rise in her throat and she reached out, stroking Tauriel's hair away from her face. Her skin was cool and clammy, and Dís swallowed. "Perhaps get her a blanket or two, Bilbo. But after that, what can we do but pray?"

No one could answer, and Bilbo rubbed angrily at his eyes, hurrying to the linen closet and retrieving a couple of blankets to drape over the elves. Then he paused, his eyes widening. "Just a moment!" He darted to the door that joined Kíli's room to Fíli's, tumbling through it and returning a moment later with the enormous feather duvet from the older prince's bed bundled into his arms. It was so large that even bunched up it covered the hobbit head to toe, and Dís could not help but laugh a little as Nali ran to assist her husband.

"I'm sure Fíli won't mind. There's another in his spare room, but that's currently buried beneath his sketchbooks," said Bilbo, settling the duvet over Tauriel.

Dana scrambled out from the space between the two elves and helped Bilbo stretch the excess over Elbeth. To Dís' faint surprise, the duvet was enough to comfortably cover both elves even down to their toes – but then Kíli was always marvelling about how large the beds were here. She knew for a fact that he, Fíli, and Thorin had slept there quite comfortably in a bundle more than once since they returned.

Bilbo took a step back and sighed, his face falling once again into anxiety. "I just wish I knew what more we could do… There must be something, but – I don't know. Óin's usually thrown me from the room by this part."

Dís let out a hollow laugh, but as she did, she noticed Dana stiffen and Glóin flinch, and her heart froze. She looked up at Thorin, begging with her eyes for him to ask why she was so afraid, to assure her that she was wrong, that Óin was fine –

Thorin closed his eyes and hung his head.

"Óin…" murmured Dana, her voice tight with pain. "Óin fell. At Una's Doors."

"What?" cried Kíli, looking desperately from Thorin to his parents as Dís' heart shattered within her. "No…"

Tears flooding her eyes, Dís looked up at her son, but already Thorin had taken his hand, squeezing it tightly. Kíli shook his head a little, but said no more, instead shivering back against his pillows, and clutching Thorin's hand like a lifeline.

"What… what happened?" asked Bilbo tentatively. "How did you all end up here, why are there orcs outside? How did they get so far into the mountain?"

Thorin shook his head slowly, and Balin gave a heavy sigh, and began to talk. Horror curled tighter and tighter around Dís' throat as he spoke of the massacre on the gates' balcony, and of Vinca's ringing the bell, and the great explosion that burst a hole in the gate. When he spoke of the great, flash-flame like devices of the orcs, it became hard to breathe, and when he described seeing Thorin haul great boulders off of Ari and Vinca she felt her strength begin to crumble.

And then Glóin began to speak of Fíli, alone and weaponless with a baby on his hip, and Dís could not breathe.

"Óin – Óin got the bastard before it could strike him, and helped Fíli up… and then… then another orc got him. We… we at least had the chance to say goodbye, to, to know that he wasn't alone, when…" Glóin broke off with a small sob, and Dís felt a tear slide down her cheek faster than she could catch it. Bilbo reached over Tauriel's lifeless body to take her hand, squeezing it warmly for a moment, and then Kíli spoke, his voice so small and hesitant that Dís' heart hurt worse for hearing it.

"I – I'm sorry, Glóin. I'm so sorry." He paused, and then lowered his voice, as though the very act of asking was a nightmare. "Where's… where's Fíli now?"

"Leading the charge at the gates," growled Thorin, glaring down at his now-bound shoulder as Kyrri continued dressing the wound on his leg. "As I should be."

"Yes, a right comfort to the men you'd be like that," muttered Dís, but the panic within her was growing. Fíli was on the frontline. Her son, her boy…

She knew that it had to be, she knew the sacred duty of their birth right, but it hurt, and she wished that she could grab her sword herself, that she could at least help, but…

As if to punctuate her thoughts, the babes inside her moved. Since Thora had revealed that she was carrying twins, Dís had noticed that things did actually feel a little different from her previous pregnancies, and she had noted several times when it felt like more than one child was stirring at once. Sometimes, if felt like a small army in there.

Drawing in another deep breath, Dís raised her head and glanced over those on the other side of the room. "How are you all doing over there? Vinca, Ari?"

"He's won himself a good few injuries, my lady," Mikel reported. "His left arm's broken, and badly, there's sign of a decent concussion and no shortage of cuts and scrapes, plus there are definitely some broken ribs there. He's lost himself a good bit of blood, too. Anything more is beyond my ability to detect, I'm afraid, but we've splinted the arm and bandaged the scrapes, and he's had a vial of the best pain tonic there is. Soon as we get out of here, we'll get you a proper healer. I'm sure you'll be right as rain soon, won't you, Lightfoot?"

There was a soft, breathy sound that Dís realised with a start was Ari's attempt at laughter, and she shivered. She knew full well that by 'decent concussion,' Mikel thought the damage to the young dwarf's head to be severe – and that there was nothing they could do without a proper healer to fix it, save a give him a tonic to numb the pain.

 _Please, Mahal, let him live,_ she prayed, closing her eyes as they began to sting with tears once more. _Please, please let him be alright, let them all live. Please, please let them live…_

Bilbo put a hand on her shoulder and pressed a kiss to her head, and Dís nodded, opening her eyes once more and looking back across the room.

"Vinca, sweet-pea, how are you?"

"All – alright," said the young hobbit bravely, though her voice was soft and fragile as paper. "My – my head hurts, and I ache all over, but, but I think it's mainly, mainly shock and fear and…"

"Come here," said Kíli, patting the space on the bed between him and Ari. It was more than big enough for Vinca to sit in, but she hesitated, glancing towards Dís.

With a sad smile, Kíli out his arms and Vinca gave a small sob, fumbling around the bed to tumble into them. At first, her feet remained on the ground, but Kíli wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up onto the bed, eliciting a startled squeak from Vinca and a frantic "Careful!" from his parents and uncle. Rolling his eyes, he pulled Vinca onto his lap, cuddling her close.

"You're alright now," he promised, resting his chin atop Vinca's curly hair. "I've got you now, it's alright. It's alright."

Despite the fear and grief tearing through her, Dís felt her heart lift slightly at the sight of the tension easing from Vinca's shoulders as she curled up against Kíli's chest. Even now that they seemed so much closer in age, with Vinca and her siblings entering adolescence as Kíli barely left it, none of the young hobbits had forgotten how Kíli used to babysit them, to cradle them and cuddle them. None of them had forgotten how, after their own parents, he had been their dearest and most trusted guardian. Their dwarf. Their Kíli.

He held her close for a long moment, and then tipped her gently to the side, tucking her into the gap between himself and Ari. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her forehead and wrapping his arm around her. A small smile twitched onto his cheek, and he quipped, "Couldn't feel my legs."

Glóin snorted and Jari smiled wryly, but Dís could only sigh. "Really, Kíli?"

He shot her a sheepish smile, wrapping his arm around Vinca and letting her lean into him, and looking pointedly away when she reached down to take Ari's hand.

Something stirred beneath Dís' fingers and she looked down, her heart leaping as Tauriel's head shifted, and her eyelids fluttered.

"Tauriel? Can you hear me? Tauriel?"

"Is she waking?" asked Glóin at once, leaping to his feet. "Because there's a draught, one that Óin – one he created himself. A strength tonic. I don't know how it works, only that it smells a damn lot like gravy, and it's not half bad for pain, either. See if she'll wake, it won't take jiffy."

With that, Glóin hurried over to the healing box, pulling out a small pot from the bottom. He nodded, apparently satisfied, and then hurried to the kitchen, calling out for more hot water.

"Tauriel?" Dís said, glancing towards the kitchen. From where she was sitting, she could see just about catch sight of Glóin pouring what looked like granules or some kind of powder into a large, wooden mug, before pouring hot water on top, and stirring like a mad man. "Come now, that's it, come back to us now."

Tauriel groaned softly, her head tilting towards Dís as her face began to contort with pain.

"Shh, it's alright," said Dís, forcing calm into her voice. "It's alright. Glóin is going to get you something for the pain, something to grant you a little more strength. Just hold on for a little while, darling, just stay with us for a few more minutes…"

The elf's eyelids began to flutter open a little, revealing eyes clouded with a glaze of pain, but within a few moments, Glóin was there, handing Dís a mug of his promised tonic.

"Apparently it replaces the fluids after bleeding, or some such nonsense, I don't know the 'how's or the 'why's. I've had it, though, and as pain tonics go, it isn't bad. I don't know if it'll work for elves…"

"It's worth a try," murmured Dís, stirring the spoon provided and staring down at the mug. It did smell a lot like gravy or stock, though the overwhelming scent was of medicinal herbs she could not name. "Here, Tauriel, we're going to need you to drink some of this, if you can. Bilbo-"

"I'm already on it, my dear," he said, sitting down and lifting Tauriel's head gently onto his lap. She winced, but made no sound, and when Dís raised the spoon to her lips, Tauriel opened her mouth. The moment the tonic reached her tongue she grimaced and recoiled, but she made no protest, and swallowed the mouthful.

"See if you can drink all of it, lass," said Glóin kindly, as Bilbo stroked back the grimacing elf's hair. "It'll do you good, I hope. Get some fluids back into you."

The rest of the room fell quiet around them as Dís spooned every last drop of the tonic into Tauriel's mouth, and when she finally murmured, "It's over," the elf shuddered, and let her eyes close fully.

"Tauriel?"

When no response came, Dís sighed, slumping against Bilbo and reaching out to continue softly stroking Tauriel's hair. For the first time, she found herself wondering about the elf's life in Mirkwood, and her family. Kíli had once mentioned something about Tauriel having been orphaned as a child, but Dís had never asked. She wondered if there was someone still in the Woodland Realm who loved her, feared for her, someone else who would be stroking her hair now if she were home.

"Here," said a gruff voice, making her jump, but it was only Thorin.

"What are you doing on your feet?" she asked wearily, and he scowled slightly.

"My wounds have been tended. And I am offering you tea."

"Oh…" Dís blinked, and then reached up and took the offered cup in her free hand, relishing the warmth of the china. "Thank you."

"It's the lavender one," he added unnecessarily, for he had steeped it long and the smell was pleasantly strong. "Óin said that it is important for you to keep your stress down, where you can."

The urge wail rose fiercely within her at the name of her cousin, but Dís swallowed it and smiled sadly, nodding her thanks to her brother. He nodded back, passing Bilbo another steaming cup, which the hobbit accepted gratefully.

It was not like Thorin to do a tea run, though it was not unheard of, but then he cleared his throat Dís' heart sank. _Of course,_ she thought bitterly. _Of course he'd butter us up before bad news…_

"Now that everyone is safe as they can be, I am going to have a bite to eat to fortify my blood, and I then I am going to return to the battle. Any of you who are able are welcome to join me."

Her heart twisted painfully. "Thorin-"

Thorin held up his hand, but it was a resigned, noble sorrow in his eyes, not stubbornness or pride or even guilt. "This is our kingdom, Dís, and I am its king. Who will fight for the city if not I? I must return to the fighting, or I have less right than a worm to rule."

Dís shook her head, putting her tea on the floor beside her. "But you are injured – in three places! No one would contest that you tried-"

Thorin crouched before her as if they were children again, and she was still so small that he had to stoop to meet her eye. His hand fell to her hair, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead, before resting his own forehead against hers. "I will not hide here, Dís, but I promise, I will do everything in my power to make it back to you. Everything."

Turning her face away, Dís closed her eyes on her tears, but she also reached up, wrapping her arms tightly around her noble, stupid big brother. "You better," she whispered, so quietly that only he could hear here. "I don't know how to raise a baby without you."

Thorin stiffened, and then he hugged her back almost painfully tight, and she bit back a whimper.

"Please, Uncle, make sure you _do_ eat something first," said Kíli, a hollow reservation in his voice. "I've some sausage rolls in the kitchen."

Thorin bowed at his nephew and headed into the kitchen, and Dís took up her teacup in a trembling hand, returning to stroking Tauriel's hair with the other.

She had almost reached the bottom of the cup when Tauriel stirred again, her eyebrows knitting together as she turned her face towards Dís. She blinked once, twice, and then her eyes opened, a little bleary, but coherent, and Dís' heart rose with a shuddering hope.

"Tauriel," she murmured, and the elf moved her head in the slightest hint of a nod.

"Dís," she breathed. "Elbeth?"

"She's alive," promised Dís. "But she hasn't woken, not yet. We haven't been able to give her any tonic…"

Tauriel's voice was quiet as a whisper, but Dís could still hear the humour within it. "That's lucky. Tasted foul…"

Dís laughed slightly. "Well I'm sorry, my dear but it's the best we had."

"Told Thorin… dwarven healers means doom," she said, but there was a faint smile on her cheeks, and Dís smiled back.

"You hush. We cannot all heal our wounded with a magic song and some starlight."

Tauriel's smile grew a little and she nodded at Dís. "Are you hurt?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Dís assured her, her heart swelling at the elf's concern, even as she felt a twang of guilt that she ever deemed elves to be cruel and selfish.

"The babies?"

"Well, I believe," said Dís, her hand automatically coming down to rest on her growing bump. "I must say, I'm still getting used to the idea of there being two of them."

Tauriel paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Two?"

Dís nodded, smiling wearily. "Twins. Thora heard two heartbeats, just yesterday."

Confusion carved deeper into Tauriel's brow, and she stared at Dís with such bafflement that Dís herself became confused. Twins were hardly an unknown phenomenon, and she was sure that Tauriel had said 'babies.'

But the elf shook her head slightly, staring at Dís as though she had never seen her before. "You, you do not know?" Tauriel breathed, and suddenly Dís' heart dropped.

"Know what?" she asked, glancing quickly up at Bilbo, who looked utterly bewildered.

"You... you do not carry two babies," said Tauriel, her voice laboured, and her eyes shining with confusion and wonder. "You carry four."

The entire room froze. Dís could not move or breathe or even think, and the silence rang in her ears.

And then Thorin broke it, his low and trembling. There was a plate in his hand, but the sausage roll upon it was untouched, and shaking. "Tauriel, did the orcs strike your head?"

Perfectly sombre, Tauriel shook her head a little, but then she winced and held still. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a moment, before looking back up at Dís. "I... I thought you knew. Among... among my people it...it is the greatest insult... the worst you could say... to a mother... to say she did not know... how many souls she carries..."

"And how do you think you know this, lass?" asked Balin kindly.

Tauriel frowned, as though this should all be common knowledge, and she closed her eyes. Her hand raised shakily towards Dís, resting on her stomach, and she sighed. "We, we can feel the energy... the energy of each child... it... it cannot be mistaken. Cannot be wrong..."

"It cannot be _four_ ," protested Thorin, his eyes wide with a fear that Dís had not seen for years. "Such a thing, it, it has never been heard of, it-"

"It has," said Glóin, though his voice was low and concerned. "Óin told me he had heard of such a thing only twice in our history, but in the first instance only two bairns survived. The other time…"

"What?" Thorin demanded. "The other time what, Glóin?"

Glóin looked at Dís for a moment, but then he closed his eyes. "The mother died, and all her babes beside her."

"But it's not, it's not _impossible,"_ said Kíli, though he looked positively green, and his voice trembled with fear. "In the Shire, it, it's not unheard of! Quadruplets, they, they're rare as anything but they have been born in the Shire, and survived, haven't they Bilbo? Haven't they?"

But Bilbo was staring at Dís with a look so stricken she knew he would not be moving any time soon. Instead, it was Vinca who replied.

"He's right, they have," she said, her arms hugging her waist as she leant forward. "Once in a generation, or even a dozen generations, but there have been quads that survived, and thrived, I'm sure they have. Estella, she, she told me about a group of old hobbits living down in the South Farthing. They were quadruplets, all, all born to the same woman at the same time, and they were in their nineties!"

"Four," breathed Tauriel, and all eyes returned to her. "There are… four. All strong. All strong. I thought… you knew…"

"So, elves have some magical sense then, of how many bairns they carry?" asked Dana, clicking her tongue in a valiant effort to lighten the mood, though when her eyes found Dís they were filled with horror. "Lucky bastards."

Shock was taking Dís, pulling her deeper down into bemusement and terror, as the number went around and around in her head.

 _Four._

Was it even possible? Triplets, she had heard of, but they were dangerous, much more dangerous than twins, and Dís had never heard of such a thing as _four_ infants in a single womb, she had never fathomed –

How?

 _Four –_

A tremendous crash shattered the air, loud as a dragon's roar, and all thought of numbers vanished from Dís' mind. Some of the others sprang to their feet around her, and she scrambled up herself, clutching at her bump as she stared at the door.

"What was that?" cried Bilbo, what little colour he had maintained draining out of his cheeks as he jumped to Dís' side, grabbing her arm so tight that it hurt. "Was, was that an explosion?"

"They must have the flash-flames inside," said Thorin, flinging his plate down onto Kíli's bedside table and limping urgently to the door. Another booming explosion came from outside, and then a third scarcely a moment later, and Thorin swore loudly, hobbling out of Kíli's chambers as fast as his injured leg would carry him. The guards were at his heels, and Glóin, Balin and Dana beside them, and after sharing a quick look of horror, Dís and Bilbo ran after them.

"Wait there, Kíli, we'll be right back!" Bilbo promised, even as they fell out of Kíli's front door and into the corridor of the royal chambers.

The sound of another explosion and the shrieking of orcs came in from outside, and the guards immediately formed rank, running down the hall and forming a defensive position, with their weapons aimed at the door. Dís jogged after them, her heart pounding in her chest and her hand encased in Bilbo's, but she caught sight of movement out of the corner of her eye.

She turned, and saw Vinca following them out, darting across the hall to duck into Dís and Bilbo's chambers. A moment later, she returned, and in her hands were her two short, thin swords.

"Pervinca Took!" spluttered Bilbo, his cheeks turning from stark white to blood red. "If you think for one moment that you're going to run off into battle, young lady-"

"I'm not running anywhere, Uncle Bilbo," she replied, her voice steady and strong. "If they have those flash-flames inside, if they blow down the doors, I won't run them either. I'll fight until I fall."

Bilbo let out an odd little whimper holding out his hand and then pressing his knuckles to his mouth, and Dís shivered.

"It won't come to that darling," she murmured, even as another explosion wrought the air, nearer this time, shaking the ground beneath them. "You're wounded, Vinca, go back inside."

"I ache," said the hobbit, somehow managing to make her voice both soft and firm at the same time. "That's all. My head feels like that bell is still striking it, and yes my stomach is a little off, but as long as I can stand, I will."

There was another boom, and the corridor shuddered. Bilbo yelped and Dís gasped, her heart lurching as the babes within her kicked.

"Bilbo, Dís, get inside!" ordered Thorin, hidden somewhere in the throng of dwarves before them. "Go back to Kíli's room, shut the door. It will hold long enough, I promise."

A sudden, awful thought struck Dís in the chest, and she paused, refusing to let Bilbo pull her back inside. "Don't you dare open that door, Thorin son of Thrain!"

"I'm not going to open the door!" he yelled back, and she could almost hear his eyes rolling.

A sudden cry split the air behind them and Dís turned, her eyes drawn at once to the statue of Durin that hid the secret exit from the royal chambers. One of the guards she had sent to secure it burst out from behind the statue, his eyes wide as he opened his mouth to yell.  
"Or-"

The black blade of a scimitar burst out from his chest, cutting off his final cry, and Dís gasped, her eyes widening.

 _"Orcs!"_ she cried, frantically, grappling at the empty space beside her hip and realising with a start the she had left her sword in Kíli's bedroom.

With a shrieking cry, the orcs threw aside the guard's body and swarmed into the far end of the royal chambers. When they caught sight of Dís and the others they let out great screeches of triumph and glee and charged – and in the closing gap between the dwarves and orcs stood Kíli's open door.

Her eyes flickered towards it, and the orcs followed her gaze, and their eyes glittered with malice, and several of them veered towards the door. Dís knew that even if she sprinted, she would never be able to make it, there was no way that she could close the door –

Kíli was inside, her Kíli, her baby, and he could not move from his bed.

A face appeared in the doorway, pale and afraid, and Dís screamed so loudly that her throat seared.

"Aria, close the door, do it now!"

To her relief, the girl obeyed, swinging shut Kíli's door even as the weapons of the orcs crashed upon it. A couple lingered by the door, pounding viciously at the stone, but most continued the charge, even as the Thorin and the guards scrambled to rally, to put themselves between Dís and the orcs.

Before they had a chance to get there, Vinca sprang forward with a war cry that seemed to shake the very walls, a roar so vicious that the orcs faltered in their tracks. Those overwhelmed by surprise were the first to fall to her blades, thin, short swords she wielded with a grace and skill learnt from Fíli. She spun into the swarm of orcs like a dancer into a ballroom, turning and twirling so that the skirt of her nightdress swayed beneath her coat.

Pride and fear punched Dís straight in the heart, but even as she watched her view was cut by Glóin and Balin pushing past her, and Dana taking a stance as a shield before her. Even as guilt pricked at Dís' heart, she felt the babies kicking, painfully strong, and she wrapped her arm around her stomach. Bilbo stepped forward beside Dana, Sting glowing bright blue in the dim light of the hall, and the guards formed rank around Dís.

The orcs' eyes were fixed upon her, violent and hungry, burning with the desire to murder a child who had never yet drawn breath, and they swarmed at the guard with all the force they could muster. Steadying herself as best she could, Dís shifted back her feet into a fighting pose, raising up her arms ready to fight. Two babies kicked at once, and a moment later there was another explosion, and the hallway shook again. An aching, stabbing pain shot across Dís' gut, but she ignored it, refusing to let her back bow.

She had babies to protect, and for them she would fight until the ends of the earth, for as long as there was strength within her.

As it was, however, she hardly made a single strike. Bilbo, Dana and the guards had created an impenetrable wall around her, and further into the hallway Thorin and Vinca were tearing their way through the ranks of orcs, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake.

With a tremendous screech, an orc flung himself up into the air, vaulting off of a dying comrade and throwing himself at Dís, sword raised to strike. Her arms shot up in a cross before her head, but before the blow fell Bilbo span around, striking upwards and skewering the orc on Sting's short blade. With a startled squawk, the orc slid down the blade, but as it did, it struck out with its sword, smashing the weapon into Bilbo's temple.

And the hobbit crumpled.

Dís could barely hear her scream as it tore from her throat, and she pushed the dying goblin away, grabbing at her husband as he fell. His eyes were closed, and his mouth ajar, and his body was limp in her arms.

"No, no, Bilbo!" she cried, pulling him back towards the wall as Dana sealed the hole he had left in their ranks. "Wake up, Bilbo, please, wake up!"

He did not stir, but she could see him breathing, and she sobbed, struggling to keep Bilbo upright around her swollen stomach as fear began to squeeze the air from her lungs. A memory rose within her, so strong that she could see it – she could _see_ Finn lying cold and still and dead on a great stone dais, she could _see_ the stone of his coffin closing over his head, and she could feel the crippling grief that had torn through her heart and soul as strong as that day so many years ago.

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she willed her body to do something, to fight or flee, or try to wake him, but it was as if her entire being was frozen. She could not speak, or move, or breathe – all she could do was pray, desperately and silently begging with the Valar not to take her husband, not again.

 _Please, please, no, no, no, please don't take him, please – not again, please, I can't do this again, I can't lose him, not Bilbo, not Bilbo, please, please not Bilbo, please, not Bilbo, please, please –_

 _Not Bilbo -_

 _Not_ him _-_

 _Not my One -_

 _Please…_

"Here, Dís, give him to me," said Glóin, and she jumped violently, looking over at her cousin. As suddenly as the battle had begun, it had ended, and the orcs lay dead around them. There seemed to only have been fifty or sixty of them. Several of the guards were bleeding, and one seemed to be unconscious, but everyone else was still standing.

Everyone, except Bilbo.

"Dís!" repeated Glóin urgently, easing the hobbit's body from her arms before she could form an answer. "We have to get him inside, he'll be alright, now."

She shook her head slightly, reaching after him, but another cramping pain shot through her and she moaned, doubling over.

At once, there was an arm around her, drawing her close and easing her upright.

"Breathe, nan'ith, breathe," Thorin murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair even as he began to guide her back to Kíli's room. "You tell those babes it isn't time yet, they must wait. Breathe with me now, breathe. Breathe."

For herself, Dís wanted to scream, but for her babies she tried, drawing in a breath as deep as she could manage. She heard the others reach the bedroom, heard Kíli's frightened scream.

 _"Bilbo!"_

Her knees buckled beneath her and she moaned, falling into her brother's side. His other arm wrapped around her, and she buried her face in his neck.

"I – I can't do it, Thorin," she whimpered. "I can't – not, not again, I-"

"You won't," promised Thorin, but she could hear his voice choking around a lump in his throat. "Bilbo is strong, Dís, stronger than any of us. Come on, you must sit down, now. You cannot afford so much stress."

She gave a hollow laugh, but then her mind turned to Óin and she froze again, a sob escaping her throat. Thorin held her closer.

"He'll be fine. We'll be fine."

Outside, another explosion rang out. The battle was still raging on.

"I won't let the filth near you, near any of you," Thorin swore, steering her carefully through Kíli's quarters.

"Amad?" cried Kíli, his voice tight with fear. "Uncle Thorin?"

"We're scaring him," she realised, shuddering lightly. Thorin nodded, and guided her into the bedroom, and a little of the fear bled out from Kíli's eyes. Just a little.

"Amad? Are you, are you hurt?" Kíli cried, his arms already tightly wrapped around Bilbo's chest. The hobbit's head was cradled in his lap, and Glóin was hunched over him, his fingers pushed into the side of Bilbo's neck to take his pulse.

"No, I… I…"

"Sit down," said Thorin, rather unnecessarily, given that he was already leading her into a chair. He put his hands on her shoulders for a moment and then glanced at Bilbo. Though his jaw clenched in anger, she could see fear in his eyes, and she whimpered, burying her head in her hands.

"I am going to go and see how they got in," said Thorin. "That should have been impossible. Balin, Mikel, Colburn, I want you with me. The rest of you, stay here. Lock the door behind us and do not open it until we return, unless you have no other possible choice. Do you understand me?"

"We understand," said Vinca, nodding sombrely, though she was paler than a ghost and trembling from head to toe.

Thorin stared at her for a moment, and then paused, taking her arm and quickly guiding her to the end of Kíli's bed. "Sit," he ordered, and when she did so he took her swords from her hand and put them aside. "I am proud of you, Pervinca," he said quietly. "You did well, but in a minute the adrenalin is going to start to fade. It's going to be hard – you will feel sick and sore, and the concussion will make itself known, so I need you to remain calm. That's very important."

Vinca nodded, a dazed look in her eyes, and Thorin stood tall, nodding at the others.

"Kíli, lad, I need you to look after your mother, now."

Kíli bowed his head grimly, and Dís pressed her hand to her mouth, trying desperately to calm her breathing, to be as brave as her son. Thorin looked at her and opened his mouth, and then he shook his head slightly.

"Farewell," he murmured, and then he was gone.

 **Phew, that wasn't an easy chapter to write! Quite a bit going on there, and no one's out of the woods just yet! I would love to know what you think, so please do leave a review if you are so inclined!**

 **As a side note, I know that in the context of such a story (fantasy, many canon-dead characters being alive) a character being pregnant with quadruplets may seem hokey or unbelievable or the like, and I hope that that isn't how it comes across here. It's not a spur of the moment decision, has been building for a long time and has more to offer the plot yet. Also, I've done a fair bit of research and have a midwife for a mother, and have come to the conclusion that it is entirely possible for healthy quads to – potentially – be born in middle earth. As ever, if you are particularly concerned with/triggered by topics such as pregnancy, complications or even miscarriage, please send me a PM and I'll let you know any spoilers that you wish to know, if that helps.**

 **I'm not sure when the next update will be, but I hope it won't be too long for you. Thank you for reading, and until the next time, please take care!**


	99. Chapter 99: The Plan of Master Pippin

**Hi there! Sorry for another delay – I was on holiday, and then I was ill. What luck. Anyway! Thank you for the lovely reviews to the last chapter! I hope that you enjoy this one, and please forgive any typos. I'm utterly exhausted, and earlier said 'that's 's' for cylinder' while on the phone with a customer at work. Whoops.**

 **Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Plan of Master Pippin**

Gimli only stopped punching the corpse when the he heard Boromir screaming. There was nothing else that could have stopped him, but the sound of utter anguish tearing straight from the soul of his friend broke through the rage devouring him. Just.

His entire body trembling, Gimli pulled himself up onto his feet and staggered back, glancing over his shoulder and trying to catch his breath.

"Why?" Boromir cried, clutching Pippin tightly in his arms and rocking back and forth like a frightened child. The hobbit's face was stark white, and his eyes were bulging and bloodshot and brimming with fear, and his knuckles were white as he gripped Boromir's arms, but he was breathing. He was breathing. "Why, why, _why_?"

With a face that was utterly stricken, Aragorn stepped forward, resting his hand hesitantly on Boromir's shoulder. He opened his mouth, but then looked down, and away, and said nothing.

Gimli glanced down at his hands, at the blood smeared across the back of his knuckles. He knew that Denethor had been dead before he even began to strike him, but he had not been able to help himself. The utter _filth_ had tried to kill his cousins, he had _seen_ it, seen the scum leaning over Merry with his hands around his little cousin's neck.

He deserved so much worse than death.

 _But Boromir doesn't deserve to watch,_ chided a voice in the back of Gimli's mind. _That bastard was his father, after all._

So Gimli drew a deep breath, and returned to what was important, throwing himself up onto the bed and scrambling across towards Merry, who sobbed and reached out for him, his neck red and his eyes filled with tears.

"Pippin!" he sobbed, his voice so achingly raw and rasping that Gimli wanted to start pummelling Denethor's body into the ground again. Instead, he settled at Merry's side, taking the hobbit's outstretched hand. At once, Merry gripped his fingers with the strength of an iron vice, and he sobbed again. " _Pippin!"_

"He's breathing," Gimli promised, putting his free hand on Merry's cheek and glancing down at the blood blooming over the hobbit's hip. Anger rose within him, burning like acid, and he snarled. "The bastard opened your wound – that'll need looking at – where are the damn elves?"

But Merry did not seem to care – he simply gave a short wail, and reached out for his cousin with the hand that was not clinging to Gimli. "Pippin!"

Still cradling Pippin in his arms, Boromir stood up, jerkily, shakily, on legs that swayed like saplings in the breeze. He staggered the few steps to the bed and lowered Pippin down onto it, and in a flash the younger hobbit had attached himself to Merry's side, his arms wrapped around his cousin and his face buried in Merry's shoulder. In turn, Merry sobbed, his face disappearing into Pippin's hair as he clung to the younger boy. Though Merry tried to twist over onto his side to wrap his other arm around Pippin as well, Gimli held his hand firm.

"Careful, mizimith," he murmured, squeezing Merry's hand and gently pushing his shoulder back down. "You don't want to tug on that wound, now."

"I thought you were dead," Merry whimpered, ignoring the dwarf and pulling Pippin closer. Pain crushed tighter around Gimli's heart, and he gave a desperate prayer of thanks that Merry had been wrong. "I thought – you, you… Pippin, I thought you were dead…"

Pippin sobbed, curling himself tighter against his cousin's side, and Gimli shuddered, reaching over to stroke Pippin's hair.

"It's alright," he choked, and then he cleared his throat and shook his head. "It's alright, I'm here now. You're safe now, you're both safe. I'm here, I'm here."

"Why?" Boromir croaked again, his knees buckling beneath him. Legolas and Aragorn caught him before he could fall, guiding him to the chair by the bedside, and he collapsed into it, dropping his head into his hands. "Why? How could, why would, why would he _do_ that?"

Gandalf gave a heavy sigh, and rested a hand on Boromir's shoulder. "I am sorry, Boromir."

"I did everything!" the man said desperately, looking up at the wizard with wide, wild eyes. "I – I did everything right, everything you asked me, I – I thought I'd paid, for what I did. I thought I'd paid!"

Gimli saw Gandalf's face grow dark, and the wizard strode around the chair, taking Boromir's shoulders and shaking him firmly. "Boromir of Gondor, this is _not_ your doing. The madness that took your father is not your responsibility, nor is it your punishment!"

"Then _why_?" begged Boromir, clutching Gandalf's arm. " _Why_ would he do that?"

Gandalf sighed, glancing towards the body on the ground. "We may never know for certain, but I fear… Well, I fear that Denethor could not process his own guilt. That he looked upon what he had done, and found that he needed someone else to blame. I believe, Boromir, that in his mind, this punishment was intended for me."

Boromir sobbed, shaking his head. "But… but how? How could, how could he – how could he do this to me? How…"

No one spoke. No one seemed to know what do say, what to do. Gandalf closed his eyes, and Aragorn looked away. Legolas simply stared, a look of sorrow in his eyes as deep as the mines of Khazad-dûm. Swallowing, Gimli looked away, down at his cousins.

"I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I'm sorry, Boromir, I should not have lost my cool, but Merry is bleeding."

At once, Boromir looked up in alarm. "Bleeding?"

"I'll have a look at that, Merry," said Aragorn gently, striding around to Gimli's side of the bed.

The dwarf shifted out of the way, ignoring all propriety and crawling around the hobbits' feet to sit beside Pippin instead. Any shame he might have felt for scrambling around like a child was instantly eradicated when Pippin reached out frantically for him, pressing his back against Gimli's legs.

"I'm here," he murmured, taking Pippin's hand and watching as Aragorn gently unbound Merry's wound.

At the sight of the injury, Aragorn's face relaxed a little, and Gimli breathed out slowly. "It's alright, Merry," he said gently. "It's not too bad at all – a little bleeding like this is to be expected, but he's caused no major damage."

Gimli sagged in relief, running his hand over Pippin's hair.

"Thank the Valar," Boromir breathed. "And Pippin?"

Pippin shifted his face ever so slightly, glancing up at Gimli, and he gave a little nod. "My…" he winced, and then raised his hand, signing in Iglishmêk. " _My throat hurts, and my head hurts, but I'm alright."_

"He's in pain, but he'll be alright," Gimli translated, nodding down at Pippin. "Right, Gandalf?"

The wizard stepped closer, taking Pippin's chin in his hand and staring into his eyes for a long moment. Then he smiled, softly, and stroked Pippin's cheek.

"Yes… he'll be alright. You're a strong one, my dear Pippin," he said, nodding slowly. "You'll be alright."

Relief flooded through Gimli from his head down to his toes, and he rested his head in his hands.

"Oh, my goodness," gasped a voice that was vaguely familiar, and Gimli looked up to see one of the healers in the door, her hand clasped tightly over her mouth. She looked from the arrow in Denethor's eye to the bow in Legolas' hand, and then her eyes grew wide, and she opened her mouth to scream.

"Peace, my lady," said Gandalf wearily, standing up and holding out his hands. "You have nothing to fear, the danger had passed."

"Murder," she whispered, shaking her head and clutching the doorframe with shaking fingers. "Treason, murder!"

"No," said Boromir, standing up at turning to face the woman in the door. Her eyes widened, and her mouth fell open in confusion.

"My – my Lord Boromir?"

"There was no murder, Eärwen," he said, his voice cracking. "De…despite what my father…"

She shook her head, looking utterly terrified. "I, I don't understand…"

"Come inside, my dear," said Gandalf. "No one will harm you."

Boromir nodded at her, and she took a tentative step into the doorway.

"I am afraid, Miss Eärwen, that the illness of your lord ran far deeper than even I suspected. You were told of his condition, were you not?"

Gimli stared at the woman, who nodded hesitantly, glancing at the body at the ground.

"The… the Warden said that he, he was losing his mind," she said, looking fearfully back up at Legolas, who lowered his bow almost sheepishly. "He said it was important to keep our silence, for the sake of our lord, but he said, he said that he thought he would recover, that he would be alright!"

A broken sob burst from Boromir's lips and he closed his eyes, pressing the back of his fist to his lips. Gandalf sighed again, sadly.

"We all hoped that he would recover, but alas… What you see before you is the consequence of his madness. The lord broke free of the room we had placed him in, and he tried to strangle our young hobbits in their sleep," said the wizard, wincing as he did. "It was only through luck, and the keen ears of young Denahi, that we made it in time. Legolas fired an arrow, indeed, but it struck only Denethor's shoulder. He put it through is eye himself."

Eärwen looked at Boromir, disbelief shining in her sharp eyes, but when he nodded she covered her mouth once more, and cringed away from the door.

"Now," Gandalf said, his voice heavy. "I would have you keep this information to yourself, Miss Eärwen. It would dishonour the legacy of Lord Denethor beyond repair."

Boromir glanced at the wizard, a confusion that mirrored Gimli's on his face. "You would – you would cover this up? For the sake of _him?"_

"For the sake of you, and your brother," said Gandalf sadly. "And for the sake of the man your father once was, before bitterness and madness and grief tore his mind to shreds."

Gimli hung his head, his eyes flickering towards Merry's side as Aragorn redressed the awful wound on his hip. Once, maybe Denethor had been a man worth remembering, more than a treacherous, murdering worm, but Gimli would have his name tarnished until the end of time for what he had done.

Except if there _had_ once been a man worth remembering, that meant that Boromir would still have memories of a father, a man who loved him and cared for him. With a heavy heart, Gimli looked up at Boromir, and he sighed. There was only one reason that he would hold his silence, and that would be for the good of his family.

And after one look at Boromir's face, he knew that he would be holding his tongue forever.

"Besides," said Gandalf, sighing heavily, and gazing sadly down at Denethor's body, "I have no intentions of 'covering up' anything, if by 'cover up' you mean to say lie. I am merely suggesting that the details of what Lord Denethor did in his last moments are kept between the people in this room. It is no lie to say that he died from wounds sustained during the course of the battle. Save Faramir, of course, and perhaps Lord Imrahil, no one else need know that the wounds were inflicted to his mind, and largely by himself. Does anyone disagree?"

No one spoke, and after a long while Gandalf bowed his head.

"Very well then. Aragorn, go and fetch us a stretcher, and some dark blankets. Miss Eärwen, if you wouldn't mind fetching these hobbits some warm tea to soothe their throats and minds, that would be much appreciated. Do not speak to any others, if you can help it, but please, tell no lie. I will not have Denethor's death infect the city as a dirty secret."

She looked again at Boromir, waiting for his nod before she tumbled out of the door. Aragorn left the room, only to return a few moments later, and together with Gandalf and Legolas, he moved Denethor's body onto the stretcher he had brought back with him. The wizard sighed sadly as he covered the lord's face and body with a dark, heavy blanket, and as he did Boromir rose onto his feet. He was trembling, and his knees looked ready to collapse beneath him, but he stayed standing, watching.

"Aragorn, will you help me bear the lord to the Houses of the Dead?" murmured Gandalf, and the ranger bowed his head.

"Of course."

"I, I should…" choked Boromir, but Gandalf smiled sadly.

"You _should_ do nothing, Boromir. If it is your wish to help bear your father to Rath Dínen, then of course you may join us, but you do not have to. Your duty to your father is done, Boromir, and there will be time yet to say a proper goodbye. For now, though, you have done enough. It might be better for you to take a little tea yourself, to sit until the shock wears off. Assure yourself that our hobbits are alright, and ensure that Miss Eärwen does not grow too afraid of Legolas."

Boromir hesitated, and then nodded, his lower lip beginning to tremble as Aragorn and Gandalf took the front and back of the stretcher. With a nod to Boromir, Gandalf bore the body out of the door, and Aragorn glanced mournfully over his shoulder, before disappearing around the corridor.

Boromir sobbed, and fell back into the chair by the bed, his head returning to his hands.

Only a few moments later, Eärwen returned with a tray stacked with a teapot and cups, and she poured a cup of steaming brew for each of the hobbits. With the gentle hands of a healer, she encouraged Pippin to sit, while propping Merry up on a couple more pillows so that he could be a little upright without tugging at his wound. The tea was sweet, and had a wholesome, herbal scent, and Gimli breathed in deeply.

Silence fell over them, and he noticed the rattle of Pippin's teacup against the saucer as his hand trembled violently. Offering a weak smile, Gimli reached out and took Pippin's hands in his own, and the hobbit flickered frightened eyes towards him, offering an even weaker smile in return. After a moment, Pippin's eyes flickered towards Boromir, and then they filled with tears, and looked down at the bed.

"I am sorry, Boromir," said Legolas softly. "I – I – forgive me."

Boromir winced, but he slowly looked up and shook his head. "No… there is nothing, nothing to forgive. For what he was doing… You did not kill him."

Legolas did not look entirely convinced by this, and he looked away. To Gimli's surprise, he thought he could catch sigh of a mist of tears in the elf's eyes. "But without my arrow…"

"He was going to kill Merry," Boromir interrupted, his voice so full of pain that it hurt to hear. "You had no choice. If you hadn't… It's a wonder you didn't shoot him straight in the head."

"The thought passed my mind," murmured Legolas, "but he was your father."

Her teeth hovering above her bottom lip, Eärwen stepped forward slightly. "My Lord Boromir? Do, do you wish me to fetch you the Warden?"

Boromir glanced up at her, shaking his head wearily. "No. Thank you, Eärwen. What the wizard said was the truth. I – I saw it myself."

The tightness of fear eased out of the woman's shoulders, but sadness flooded her face and she bowed her head. "Then I am sorry, my lord. My heart is with you."

For a moment, Gimli wondered if she was apologising because she had already sent word to the warden, but Boromir put a hand on his heart and bowed his head, and Gimli relaxed slightly.

"Rion," said Boromir suddenly, looking up at Eärwen. "Have you heard, my lady, has Rion been found?"

Eärwen nodded, but fear tightened her eyes. "Yes, my lord, but he… he is not well."

Pippin gave a little whimper, and a wave of fresh grief crashed onto Boromir's face. "I am sorry," the man said.

"What happened?" asked Pippin, his hoarse voice catching painfully in his throat.

Eärwen glanced at him, and swallowed. "You, you spoke with Rion before the battle began did you not? You saw what state Osgiliath had left him in?"

His fingers digging tightly into Gimli's hand, Pippin nodded. "She – oh! He, or they?" he broke off, glancing between Eärwen and Boromir, and Gimli frowned heavily. Eärwen was growing a little pale, her shoulders drawing back and fists curling as though she was preparing to launch into a defence, but Boromir gave a weary smile.

"I tell you, Eärwen, none in this room would think less of your sister for the path she has taken. Among their people it is not strange to see a woman among the guard or within the army, and they will keep her secret safe, I swear it," he said, glancing at Pippin. "Though Pippin may need reminding of the need for secrecy every once in a while."

A little red-faced, Pippin nodded. "I'm sorry. Rion is your…"

"My sister," murmured Eärwen, her eyes lingering on the hobbit for a long moment, before turning to Boromir. "They found her in the second level, covered in rubble. She should not have been fighting, she, she was already wounded, and badly. Her face… But they brought her back, they brought her in at twilight, and she… Her ankle is shattered, and she has not stirred to consciousness. And her eye… we could not save her eye."

Pippin sucked in a sharp breath and Gimli winced in sympathy, stroking his cousin's hair.

Eärwen sighed, and nodded. "But she is strong. Stronger than most. If anyone can pull through this…"

Boromir nodded. "She certainly is. My heart is with you both, Eärwen. If we may help…"

She nodded, and a silence fell upon them. Gimli could feel Merry and Legolas looking curiously at Pippin and Boromir, and it was a curiosity that he felt too, but he did not have the heart to ask about secrets and sisters and jumbled pronouns. Not now.

After a short while, Gandalf and Aragorn returned, and Gimli looked up expectantly.

"There is much to discuss, but we are all weary now," said the wizard heavily. "I have sent word to Lords Imrahil and Faramir, to be delivered at dawn. An hour after the sun rises, we will take council – most probably in the room of Faramir, if he wishes to be a part of the discussion, and in a war room if not. About one thing, Denethor is right – we may have won the battle, but this war is far from over. Someone will call on each of you, ere the meeting begins. For now, try and get some sleep. Gimli-"

Gimli scowled. "If you think I'm leaving this room-"

"I was not going to suggest it," said Gandalf gently. "I was only going to say that perhaps Legolas might like to remain too – that way if you wish to set a watch and alleviate your fears, you each may grab a few hours of rest before dawn."

"I will stay," said Legolas, bowing his head to Gimli. "If you wish it."

Gimli glanced down at the hobbits, and Merry gave a weak little nod.

"I wish it," he mumbled, and Pippin nodded, peeking up from Merry's shoulder to glance up at the elf.

"Come Boromir, Aragorn," said Gandalf gently. "Let us try and get some rest, and leave these poor hobbits in peace."

Boromir nodded slowly, but as he rose from his chair he swayed, reaching out to the bed to steady himself. As he did, Pippin reached out, squeezing Boromir's hand. He opened his mouth, and then winced, shaking his head and raising his other hand to sign.

Gimli had to clear the lump from his throat before he could translate. "He says he's sorry."

Hitching in a shuddering breath, Boromir nodded. "Me too," he murmured, and then Aragorn stepped forward, taking his arm and leading him from the room. Gandalf bowed his head and followed them out, closing the door behind him, and Gimli sighed.

"Don't worry too much about sleeping," he said, making his voice as gentle as it could be as he stroked Merry's hair. "If you think too much about it, you won't get a wink of it. Just close your eyes. Rest. I'll watch over you, you'll be just fine."

Closing their eyes, the hobbits huddled together beneath the blankets, but Merry pressed his shoulder against Gimli's leg, and Pippin reached across his cousin to wrap his fingers around Gimli's tunic. The dwarf leant back against the headboard, sighing softly.

"I will take the first watch, my friend," murmured Legolas, sitting in the chair beside the bed and resting his bow across his lap. "You should try and get some rest too."

It would be a lie to say that Gimli was not tired – exhaustion seemed to have turned his bones to solid lead, and misery swam through his mind, begging him to rest. But to sleep after what had happened?

"Just close your eyes," said Legolas. "Take your own advice. You do not have to sleep. Just close your eyes, just for a little while now."

Grumbling beneath his breath, Gimli did as the elf suggested, but only moments after he began to rest his eyes sleep pulled him down, sucking him deep into a dark, dreamless slumber. It was not broken until morning, when he felt a hand shake his shoulder.

"It is time for Gandalf's council, my friend," said Legolas, and Gimli blinked away the morning sun.

"Why didn't you wake me for a watch?" he grumbled. "You ought to have slept too."

"You looked like you needed it more than I. Come, the others are already there."

Gimli glanced down to see Merry watching him expectantly. Pippin was standing nearby, his chin resting on the bed, but when he stepped back, Gimli could see black bruises circling the hobbit's neck and he gritted his teeth.

"Damned fiend," he snarled, glancing at Merry's neck and seeing the same marks. "Were it not for Boromir the corpse would be torn to shreds by now."

Merry smiled slightly. "We know. Gimli, will you carry me? To the meeting?"

Gimli paused, glancing at Legolas. "I'm not sure it's the best idea to move you, lad, with a wound like that."

"But I want to know what's going on!" protested Merry, and from the way that Legolas looked pointedly out of the window, Gimli guessed that the discussion had already been had once before. "I deserve to know what's happening. Gandalf wants to talk about Frodo and the others, I know he does, and I want to know what the plan is."

"And I will tell you what it is," swore Gimli. "Word for word. But I won't risk that wound opening again – you need to rest. We almost lost you, Merry, and I won't – you will stay here."

Merry folded his arms over his chest, glowering mutinously down at the sheets of the bed. "Fine."

"I'll stay with you, if you want me too," said Pippin, and Gimli winced. The younger hobbit's voice was still hoarse, and painful to hear.

Merry sighed heavily. "It's alright, Pip. I think you should go. You can tell me all about it later."

"Will, will you be alright, on your own?"

"He won't be alone, lad," said Gimli firmly. "Denahi will stay with him, and I'll see that there's a guard on the door. One we can trust."

"Gandalf has already sent one," said Legolas. "A man named Beregond. He stands outside now."

"He's the one that saved my life," added Pippin, and Gimli nodded.

"Right. Off we go then." But he stepped closer to the bed instead of towards the door, and pressed a knife into Merry's waiting hand. "I'll see you soon, Merry."

The hobbit nodded bluntly, and squeezed Pippin's hand, and then Legolas led the way out of the door. Pippin walked very close to Gimli, his arm brushing against the dwarf's as they headed down the corridor. They did not have far to walk – Gandalf had set council in a chamber not far out of the healing halls. He was there with Aragorn and Boromir on either side, and Éomer stood by the window, his face grey with a lack of sleep, but his eyes were hard and determined. Beside him were Halbarad and Imrahil, and behind them stood the elven twins. Elladan and Elrohir looked more sombre than Gimli had ever seen them, and he did not like how much that disconcerted him. Faramir was not there, but Gimli did not blame him. If Gimli had been in his shoes…

No. Gimli did not blame Faramir at all.

When he had taken stock of who was there, Gimli let his eyes fall on Boromir. There were deep, dark circles beneath his heavy eyes, and his skin was pale, almost grey. If he had slept for a single minute, Gimli would be surprised. When Boromir saw Pippin, however, the corner of his mouth curled towards a ghostly smile, and he nodded his head in greeting.

"How are you feeling, Pippin?" he asked, his voice tight, but strong.

Pippin smiled back, but his hand rose unconsciously to his throat, and Gimli and Boromir both flinched. "I'm alright," said the hobbit quietly, and Gimli cold see that the rasping of his voice was as painful for Boromir to hear as it was for the dwarf.

"And we are all glad to hear it," said Gandalf, stepping forward with a warm smile. "I'm glad you are here, for we have much to discuss, and little time in which to do it. Come, we shall sit."

He gestured to a ring of chairs that had been set out, much like those at the council of Elrond, and together they all sat down. Gimli settled himself between Pippin and Legolas, and Boromir took Pippin's other side, smiling weakly again when the hobbit patted his hand kindly.

"By now, everyone here knows what happened in the Houses of Healing last night," said Gandalf heavily. "Aside from those of us here, only three souls know the entire truth – Merry, Faramir, and the Healer Eärwen, who was unlucky enough to walk in on the aftermath of the affair. I think it would be best if it remains that way. The death of the Steward was announced this morning, and the official cause of death was an arrow-wound sustained during the course of battle. The Stewardship has passed to Boromir, but I fear there is little time for ceremony, either of grief or celebration. We cannot afford to rest upon our victory for long – Sauron has suffered a defeat, yes, and a mighty one at that, but his forces still outnumber ours, and I doubt not that he had some plan formed for this eventuality. In one thing, Denethor was right – we have not won this war. We have but one hope, one way in which we might be able to gain an advantage enough to win, and that hope is now with Frodo."

A rumble of agreement ran around the room, and Gimli glanced at Éomer and Imrahil. He was not sure when they had been told the details of Frodo's quest, but Gandalf must have done it at some stage, as neither man looked confused.

"Unfortunately," said Aragorn, his voice heavy as a death knoll, "the victory we won here will have done little to aid him. There will be thousands of orcs swarming the lands of Mordor, tens of thousands, and after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, Sauron may well draw more forces back behind his walls. They stand between Frodo and Mount Doom, and if they stay there, Frodo has no chance of crossing unseen."

Éomer leant back in his chair, closing his eyes. "Then we are doomed. Three hobbits and a dwarfling cannot fight the armies of Mordor alone, and if they cannot sneak through unseen…"

Pippin shuddered, glancing fearfully at Gimli. The dwarf swallowed, and took a deep breath.

"We have to do something," he said, trying to make his voice blunt rather than desperate. "There must be something we can do, some way we might help them."

"That, my dear Gimli, is what we must try and find. A way to help, even from afar." Gandalf sighed, and looked towards the window to the east. "Yet it is hard to say what might be done. Éomer is right. If we do nothing, doom will come upon us before long."

An uncomfortable silence swept into the room, and Gimli glanced out of the same window. In the distance, on the smudge of the horizon, he could make out the mountains of Mordor, and hatred curled in his gut. They were there, Frodo and Sam and Nelly and Bróin, his young cousins were there, and alone.

Beside him, Pippin shifted uncomfortably, and then he cleared his throat. "What… what if we marched on Mordor?" he said, and the men stared at him incredulously. He went a little red and glanced down at his hands, but when he spoke again Pippin's voice was strong and unwavering, even beneath the pain layered through it. "I know we haven't enough soldiers, that we'd be lucky beyond hope to get out alive, but… if we gathered an army and marched to the Black Gate, then he, he would have to counter us, wouldn't he? He would move his army to the gate, and he wouldn't be looking so much at his own lands. It might get rid of some of the orcs for a while, and that, that might give Frodo and the others more of a chance."

"A diversion," murmured Legolas, as the others stared at Pippin. Gimli thought it over in his mind, and he nodded slowly.

 _Damn the world that it has come to this,_ he thought.

"Certainty of death? Small chance of success? What are we waiting for?"

"Pippin may have a point," said Gandalf carefully. "Though Sauron may suspect a trap."

"He won't," said Aragorn, sitting upright with eyes that glowed with resolve. "Not if Andúril leads the assault. He will not have forgotten the blade of Elendil."

"So we cheat death by an inch only to throw our lives away?" protested Boromir. "The armies of men are exhausted, and depleted, and such a quest – we shall not return. Can we really lead an army forth in good conscience, knowing full well that none may return? We speak of peoples; lives, not of riches or weapons."

"Aye," said Éomer grimly. "I fear if Rohan rides on Mordor, our country will not survive it. Already we have been away too long. But we will ride nonetheless, if that is the only way to give hope to the world. If this is the path you will choose, Aragorn, then Rohan is with you."

Aragorn nodded. He looked at Boromir, and then to Gandalf.

"Can you think of any other way?" the Ranger asked.

The wizard shook his head slowly. "No. The thought had passed through my mind, too, and I have not been able to think of a single better solution. I believe… well, I believe it is the only way."

Aragorn looked back at Boromir. The younger man sighed, rubbing his jaw, and then he sighed, and gave a nod.

"We will have to be careful, and clever, to ensure that there are some men left to guard the city, to protect the women and children. If we fail, they will need a last defence." He paused, and then nodded slowly. "The boys – the soldiers that aren't yet sixteen years old, they should remain behind. Faramir could lead the city, but he is still weak, and after what happened last night – Well, he needs a pair of legs."

Imrahil stared at his nephew for a long moment, and then he turned his eyes to Aragorn, studying him for a long moment. Then, finally, he bowed his head to Aragorn. "If it is your wish, Lord, I will stay in Minas Tirith, and take command of the city until you return, or Faramir recovers his strength. I do not mind coming with you, but if both you and Boromir are to march out then someone must remain behind. Besides, if Boromir and Aragorn ride to war together, then I am sure Mordor will tremble."

"That would be a great comfort to me, if you stayed," said Aragorn. "We will gather as many men as can be found, as many as are willing to march, but we will take no one against their will."

"We will follow you," said Elrohir, putting his hand on his heart.

"Into the Black Land itself, if we get so far," added his twin, and Halbarad nodded.

"You are my kinsmen, Aragorn, and my king," he said. "I will follow you into this fight."

Gimli snorted. "Well, I'm certainly not about to let Men and elves have all the fun."

"I feel it goes without saying that I plan on following you," added Legolas.

"And I'm coming too," said Pippin, and once again all eyes fell upon him. This time, he did not look down, or away. Instead, he jutted his chin up and drew back his shoulders, and took a deep breath. "I know you all think that I shouldn't, that I should stay here, but I can't. I won't. Merry showed me the letter from Auntie Esme. I know that the war has reached the Shire, and that it's probably reached Erebor too by now. I can't fight there, on either front. I can't protect my family in the Shire, or in the Mountain, but I can still fight. I can fight here. And I have to."

The men all stared at Pippin with grief and fear carved into their faces, and Legolas was staring as though he had never seen a hobbit before in his life, but Gimli understood.

 _"Are you certain?"_ he asked in Khuzdul, and Pippin nodded.

 _"Yes. I am certain_."

 _"You do not have to do this, there will be no shame if you do not,"_ pressed Gimli gently. _"I will not stop you, if it is what you truly wish to do, but if you think it's what you should do, that is different."_

 _"I want to fight,"_ said Pippin, and then he said it again in the common tongue. "I want to fight. I – I have to."

"Alright then," said Gimli, around the lump in his throat. "Good to know that I'm completely doomed." Pippin frowned, but Gimli grinned. "What? Even if by some mad twist of fate we survive this thing, Fíli will skin me alive for letting you march off to war, Peregrin Took."

Pippin gave a small smile, and bowed his head slightly. Gimli caught sight of Gandalf staring at them, a sad smile on his face, and then the wizard sighed.

"So be it. If we are to be of any help to Frodo, we must march before noon tomorrow, I fear. Every hour that we waste hastens Mordor's victory."

"Then there is no time to lose," said Aragorn. "Gandalf, Halbarad, see what you can do about gathering provisions, supplies. Legolas, Gimli, seek out the armoury, see what can be repaired and fortified. Elladan, Elrohir, you too. Eómer, ready your men, and if you can, see what you can do about horses for the rest of us."

"The Rohirrim can be ready in an hour," said Eómer. "Where shall we find more horses?"

"Most of the homesteads in the Pelennor Fields have been razed," said Imrahil, "and many more outside the mountains, too. We have stables in the city, but scarce more than a hundred horses, it will not be enough."

"Not for the whole army to ride," agreed Aragorn, "But the more horses we have, the less the men will have to carry, and the faster we will travel."

"I will send out riders to every village and homestead we can reach," swore Eómer. "If there are horses to be found, we shall find them."

Aragorn bowed his head. "Thank you. Imrahil, I would have you take charge of the guard, of those who will remain in the city. Find the young boys bearing arms and ready them to protect the city. If he is willing, Boromir and I shall rally the troops, and gather all who would dare to fight. Any who wish to remain behind, we will send to you, with your leave."

Imrahil bowed his head. "As you wish. I'm sure that you will find few cowards here, my lord."

"I am sure I will find next to none," said Aragorn. "But I may find farm boys who have seen more blood than they can take, or grocers who have already given all the strength that they have to their kingdom, or soldiers who have watched too many comrades die."

"Very true, Aragorn," said Gandalf, rising from his chair. "Let us go now – time is wasting, I fear."

"Wait! What do you want me to do?" asked Pippin anxiously, and Aragorn smiled at him.

"Rest, Pippin. Do not fear, we will not leave you behind. Not if this is the path on which you are set. But you suffered last night – you are wounded. So rest, just for today." Sorrow bled into Aragorn's eyes, and he sighed. "Tell Merry what is happening, and watch over him. I do not think he will want you out of his sight today."

Pippin bowed his head, but he nodded, and hopped down from his chair. Gimli followed, and looked up at the three elves. "I'll meet you in the armoury."

Legolas nodded, and the twins bowed, and Gimli and Pippin returned to Merry.

The older hobbit said nothing as Pippin relayed the meeting. He just watched and waited, with a grim, grave look in his eyes. When Pippin declared his intention to fight, Merry's jaw tightened and his fists clenched, but he did not move otherwise, and he did not speak. He just waited, staring at his cousin until Pippin finished talking. Then, and only then, did Merry swallow, and whisper, "Are you sure?"

Pippin nodded, tears in his eyes, and Merry bowed his head.

"Alright then," he murmured. "I – I can't come with you, Pip."

"I know."

"I can't look after you."

"I know."

"Come – come back?" Merry pleaded, looking back up at Pippin's face with eyes that swam with tears. "Afterwards. Please come back."

"I'll try," promise Pippin, his voice a breathless whisper, and Gimli felt a lump in his throat.

"Of course he'll come back," he scoffed, sounding much more certain than he felt. "He's a Took – he's got Bullroarer's blood in his veins."

Pippin smiled weakly and Merry gave a ghostly laugh, and Gimli grinned, pretending that his heart was not about to give out in his chest.

"Right, I'd better go and make sure the elves don't dull all the swords in the city. I'll be back later, lads."

The two hobbits nodded, and Pippin jumped up onto the bed beside Merry. The last thing Gimli saw when he looked over his shoulder was his two cousins curled together, nestling into each other's arms with bruised, blackened throats, and the weight of doom on their shoulders.

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! The next one should hopefully be up fairly soon, but I can't guarantee that circumstance won't conspire against me again. Please do let me know what you thought of this chapter if you have the time, and until next time, take care!**


	100. Chapter 100: Of Triumphs Great and Small

**Hey everyone! Thanks for the awesome reviews for the last chapter. This is Chapter 100! I'm absolutely stunned that we're here, when I look back at where I was when I started Strangers, but I am so insanely happy and grateful that this is where we are. To those of you still following this story, thank you so, so much - it means the utter world to me.**

 **As ever, please forgive any mistakes or typos in this chapter, and I hope that you enjoy it!**

 **Chapter One Hundred: Of Triumphs Great and Small**

Mordor was worse than Frodo could ever have imagined. By day it was hot as the forges, and by night it seemed cold as Caradhras. The scent of rot and death and decay was all about them, and only rarely replaced by the stench of some foul bog, or refuse, or sulphur. There was no sound of running water, no stream or brook in which they could wash their weary feet, and the sky above their heads was ever smothered with thick, black cloud. It was a wasteland, but one that still crawled with twisted life. Orcs infested the land in numbers so great they drained Frodo of any lasting hope. They seemed to dwell in villages built of mud and iron, little clustering mockeries of the towns of men, and their roads were seldom empty, forcing the remnants of the Conspiracy into the barren wasteland, into plains with little cover, or caves cluttered with corpses.

In the three days they had trudged through this hell, Frodo had seen more orcs than he had encountered before in his entire life. Somehow, so far, they had snuck through unseen, but it could not last. He knew it could not.

Especially not with Bróin.

That was the worst part of being in Mordor, without a doubt. Watching what Mordor was doing to Bróin. Frodo's desperate hope that the dwarf might have recovered after vomiting the foul water from his stomach was laughed away by the ring, shattered to smithereens against every retching, hacking cough that wreaked through Bróin's body. When he was not coughing, his breath was rattled and strained, and now he shivered by both night and day. His skin was clammy, and ever beaded with sweat, but even as he complained of cold, Bróin's skin was burning with a fever hot to the touch.

He could not even sit up anymore. Instead, the young dwarf lay slumped over Toothy's back, drifting in and out of uneasy sleep.

Frodo had never seen a dwarf so sick.

 _He's going to die,_ crooned the ring. _We grow stronger, and he grows weaker, and soon he will choke on his own bile. He is going to die. You are all going to die._

It was getting louder. Stronger. The ring was so heavy now that the chain was tearing away the skin around Frodo's neck, so heavy that it was exhausting just to stand. His hope had been bled from him entirely, and the ring adored it. In every restless night, the last thing he heard before his step was the soft, cruel laughter of the Ring, and every morning he woke to its crooning refrain.

 _You are doomed. You are going to die._

 _You are all going to die._

 _We are so close._

 _We are home._

If it were not for Sam and Nelly, Frodo was sure that he would already be dead. The pair marched on uncomplaining through all the stretches of land before them, their jaws set and their eyes strong. Nelly led Toothy as a man might lead a horse, and when they hid from the roving bands of orcs, she would hold her hand gently over Bróin's mouth, muffling any noise he might have made. Sam kept close to Frodo, very close, and any time the older hobbit started to slow down, Sam would take his arm, or start to chatter quietly about home.

"We'll get some strawberries and cream, next time we're in the Shire, and we'll tell my old Gaffer all we've seen. He won't believe it, I bet, but we'll tell him all the same. And Thorin will throw us a great ball, Frodo, you know he will – you being his favourite, after all. Don't give me that look, you know Mister Thorin's awfully fond of you. There'll be a great ball, with food and drink and enough flowers to mistake the mountain for a garden."

But by now, Nelly and Sam were tiring. Even Toothy seemed to be drained by the very aura of Mordor. His head hung low, and his tail was between his legs.

As the darkness grew deeper around them, signalling the end of the fourth day, Nelly paused, murmuring something in Bróin's ear before turning to Sam and Frodo.

"We can't stop here," she said wearily, pushing a few loose curls out of her face. She was shivering slightly as the cold of evening drew in, but her cloak was tucked around Bróin. "There's no shelter – we'd be spied in a heartbeat if anyone came by. We'll keep going until we can find somewhere to bunker down for the night."

"And if we can't?" asked Frodo, staring at the ground.

"Then we just keep walking," she said. "If you're tired, you can ride behind Bróin."

"I'm alright," said Frodo, but Nelly and Sam both raised their eyebrows at him. "For now," he amended wearily. "I'm alright for now."

Nelly gave a slow nod, and then she began walking again. Soon, the night wrapped around them, suffocating tight, until Frodo could barely see her just a few yards before him. For another three hours or so they walked, until at last Nelly said they could stop.

"There's a little rocky hill here," she said. "Wait here, don't move until I get back."

Frodo nodded wearily, and as he did his knees buckled beneath him. Sam grabbed his arm, easing him down to the ground before he could fall.

"Frodo?"

"I'm alright," he breathed, resting his head on his knees. "Just tired. So tired."

Sam said nothing, but he rested his hand on Frodo's head. After a few moments, Nelly returned.

"There's a little crag around there we might take shelter in. It's not much, couldn't be classed as a cave for a mouse, but it'll keep us hidden from two sides, at least. Come on."

Frodo forced himself back onto his feet, ignoring Sam's attempts to steer him onto Toothy. They followed Nelly around the rock to the promised shelter – no more than a slight slant leaning into the rock, with the smallest hint of an overhang above them.

Stumbling through the aching and fatigue consuming him, Frodo took Bróin's arm, looping it over his shoulder. The young dwarf moaned, resting his sweaty forehead against Frodo's for a moment as Nelly hurried around, bringing his other arm over her own shoulders and easing him down off of the warg. Together, the trio collapsed against the cold stone, and Bróin slumped against Frodo's side. His breathing was laboured, and then it hitched, and Frodo braced himself, closing his eyes and squeezing his cousin's arm.

Bróin shuddered, violently, and then he began to cough – deep, wrenching coughs that brought up bile and a little blood. Frodo kept his eyes closed. He could not watch anymore. He could hear Nelly humming, hear her murmuring to Bróin and he knew that she was rubbing his back, but he could not watch. He could not watch Bróin choke any more.

Finally, the coughing subsided, but as it did Bróin's weight slipped away from Frodo's side, and the hobbit looked up in a panic. Somehow, Bróin had tumbled into Nelly's lap, and she stroked his hair gently, even as she twisted him onto his side.

"If you lie on your back everything will just sit on your lungs, won't it? That's it, just breathe. I'm here. I'm here. Breathe, now, Bro," she murmured.

Without a word, Sam pulled out their provisions, passing Frodo and Nelly a little lembas and a couple of nuts each. To Bróin, he gave a small corner of lembas, and nothing more. He did not seem able to stomach anything else, and there had been a couple of times even the elven bread became too much for him.

Tonight, though, Bróin seemed able to handle the lembas, and a small sip of water too, and then he closed his eyes, and seemed to slip straight into sleep.

After a short while, Sam spoke quietly. "This's gone far enough. Bróin can't go on any longer, not like this."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" asked Nelly wearily. "We can't leave him here."

"He should go back," said Sam. "Nelly, I think you should take him back, you and Toothy."

She let out a hollow laugh. "Right. Because that would be easy."

"I didn't say it would be easy," protested Sam, and Frodo glanced at him. Sam's face was ashen grey, and he looked ready to throw up himself. "We're one cough away from being caught by orcs, Nelly, and he can't fight, not like this. They'll kill him! We have to get him out of here."

"Can't," mumbled Bróin, and Sam and Frodo jumped. So, the dwarf was not asleep at all… "That'd mean Nelly... Nell'd be all but alone. I'm bout 's useful as a shoe shop in the Shire, I know, but that's why we can't go back. It's too dangerous. If the orcs get me... well, that's what I signed up for."

Sam shuddered, and Nelly clicked her tongue gently. "They won't get you, Bro. I won't let 'em."

Bróin winced, and opened blearily eyes to stare at Sam. "Perhaps you're right though, Sam. Perhaps I should stay, should stay here. Wait for you to get back."

Sam bristled, but Frodo could catch a glint of alarm in his eyes. "Well now, that was never on the cards in the first place! I wouldn't say such a thing and you'd be a fool to say it too. Stay here indeed – that's madness."

"But I am a threat," protested Bróin weakly. "To the quest-"

"No," said Frodo, his voice catching in his throat, and the others all looked at him. "The ring is a threat to you. It's... it's doing this, I know it is."

Nelly and Sam exchanged a glance, and Bróin frowned up at Frodo.

"What do you mean?"

"It's making you sicker." Frodo's voice came out as a whisper. "It's killing you, Bróin."

The young dwarf's eyes widened, and Nelly drew back her shoulders.

"Well, we better just hurry up and kill it first, then. Because no one is splitting up and no one is dying."

Bróin winced. "Nell-"

"Don't you 'Nell' me, Bróin," she said sharply. "Do you think I haven't thought about I else we could do? We can't find somewhere to hide - nowhere is safe enough, round here, and we would run out of water before Frodo and Sam could get back to us. You're dehydrated as it is, but if we keep moving we have the chance to find something drinkable, and even if we don't, we have five water bottles - we can only share them evenly among the four of us if we're together. And we can't go back. I can't fight you out of Mordor on my own, even with Toothy, it's too dangerous. So, we have one option. We have to keep moving, as a pack. It's the only way, so stop fighting me."

Bróin sighed and closed his eyes, his fingers curling around Nelly's arm. "I'm, I'm so tired, Nelly."

"I know," she murmured, her voice instantly gentle again. "I know. You should be in a nice warm bed with a hot water bottle or two, but as it is you've just got to hold on, Bróin. That's all we ask. Just hold on."

"It's going to be alright, now," murmured Sam, though there were tears glistening in his eyes. "We're going to be fine, just fine. You'll see."

Sighing, Frodo curled up with his knees beneath his chin, and dropped his head down onto his arms. He could feel tears stinging at the back of his eyes, and hopelessness creeping up his throat. He was certain that he had never understood the word 'despair' before. How could he? Even in the worst moments of his life, he had had family, and hope, but now…

What hope did they have left?

Mount Doom was still miles away, miles, and even if they did not get caught along the way, could Bróin make it that far?

 _No_ , laughed the ring. _No, he won't. He is dying, and we grow stronger. You are taking us home, Frodo, taking us home._

This whole thing had been a terrible idea. Frodo should never have left Rivendell, never dared to believe that he could be strong enough for this. He never should have brought his family with him, he never should have trusted Gollum – how could he have been so _stupid_ to have trusted Gollum?

If he had not, if he had just listened to Sam, then they never would have gone near the great spider. He and Bróin would never have been stung, or captured, and Bróin would never have been dunked beneath filthy water until he had no choice but to drag the poison straight into his lungs.

If it was not for Frodo, Bróin would not be coughing up blood.

 _We will take his life,_ whispered the Ring. _We will drain it from him, we_ are _draining it from him, and he will die. Then we will take the girl, and then little Samwise, and then we will take you. But if you put us on, they will be saved._

 _Liar_ , Frodo thought, clenching his fists, but the ring's voice grew both softer and louder in the back of his mind.

 _Put it on, and we will save them. Carry us to Barad-Dur and we will reward you, beyond your wildest dreams. We will drag the sickness from Bróin's lungs, we will give Samwise and Pimpernel such strength that illness and fatigue will never lay a finger on them again. If you resist, we will take them all, but if you carry us home you will be rewarded._

 _No,_ Frodo thought fiercely, but fear struck his mind as his heart's resolve wavered. It was a trick, he knew it was a trick, but if there was no other way to save his friends, would he do it? Would he give in, betray the world, for the sake of Bróin, and Nelly, and Sam?

 _Yes_ , whispered the ring, _you would. And it's your choice – you can either deliver us of your own will, or beg for the chance to do so when you are dragged before the greatest Lord of all. You will reap the rewards of your courage, or you will burn in the fires of Mordor as we flay you alive. You will deliver me home, Ring-bearer, or we will tear you apart with our teeth, and you will beg for death, but it will not come – not until you have watched us devour every soul you profess to love. We will rip the flesh from their bones before you, we will slaughter each and every one of them, and you will watch, and then, only then, when you are alone beyond all reckoning, will we drag your soul from your body –_

"Frodo! Frodo!"

Fingers dug into his shoulders tightly, painfully, and he sobbed as the hands shook him.

"Frodo! Wake up! Look at me, dammit!"

 _They will all die!_

With a gasp, Frodo opened his eyes. Sam's face was merely a foot from his own, and his eyes searched Frodo's face quickly. "What was that?"

"I, I wasn't asleep," Frodo gasped, grabbing Sam's arm as a shudder of horror ran through his body. "It, it was talking, talking to me, it – it – we're all going to die!"

"What? What are you talking about?" asked Nelly, pulling Bróin closer. The dwarf was watching Frodo with wide eyes – fearful eyes – bloodshot eyes, and Frodo sobbed, falling back against the cold stone.

"The ring," he moaned, tightening his fingers around Sam's arm. "It, it says if I do not take it to Sauron, they will kill us, all of us."

"Of course it'll say that," said Nelly, but her voice trembled. "It's not going to be happy about what it is we're doing. And it can't communicate with him, Frodo, Gandalf was sure of that. It can't give us away, it can't do anything!"

"It can make Bróin sicker-"

"Can it?" asked Nelly. "How do you know?"

Frodo shook his head slightly, and Sam pulled him forward into a rough hug.

"Breathe now, Frodo," he murmured. "It'll be alright, Bróin'll be just fine. You'll see."

But Frodo shook his head. "How? How will anything ever be alright? We're doomed, Sam, we're doomed. We can't do this, we can't! Why we ever thought that we could… We're all going to die…"

Sam paused, and then pushed Frodo gently back against the rock. His fingers brushed Frodo's neck as he grabbed a chain, pulling it until a small medallion of mithril fell into his palm, glinting even in the overwhelming darkness.

"This is why," he said, pressing the small shield into Frodo's hand. "Why we thought we could do this. Because they're counting on us back home, they all are. And because whatever we can't do for ourselves, we can do for them. By rights we shouldn't even be here, it's not fair, but we're here so Dis can have her baby, and Bilbo can be there with her. We're here so the Shire can continue to bloom and grow, so that my Old Gaffer can fatten up Orla and Ola and Bodin on strawberries and cream. We're here so that one day, Pearl can throw that great hobbit party in Erebor. So that Nelly can one up Nori, so that you can finally turn around to Fíli and Kíli and claim to be the most reckless brother. We're here because of our family, Frodo, and that's why we can do it. That's why we can win. Because they can't afford for us to lose."

Frodo stared down at the glittering shield. He could not breathe for the lump in his throat, and the ring was still hissing in the back of his mind, but it was quieter, and well of despair boring through his soul seemed a little weaker. Though tears still slid down his cheeks, they no longer felt like they were burning him, and when his palm shook, it made the mithril catch what little light there was in left in the sky, and it twinkled in his palm like a star.

"Don't listen to the ring, Frodo," murmured Nelly. "It's just evil. Nothing less– and nothing more."

Frodo thought of Thorin, of the dwarf's pride and resolve and bravery, and he swallowed. "What… what if I fall?"

"We won't let you. We won't let you fall – no matter what you do. Wherever you go, no matter where you are or what you've done, we will be there, and we will not let this thing destroy you. And we will not let you destroy us." Nelly paused, looking down at Bróin and smiling a little as she brushed his hair away from his pale, sweaty forehead. "We won't let it kill Bróin, or anyone else. We just have to keep going. One day at a time."

Sam nodded eagerly. "And if that's too much, then just one step, Frodo. One step at a time, one minute. We're almost there."

"Something equally supportive and inspiring and sickly sweet," mumbled Bróin, a grin tugging at the side of his lip even as his eyelids drooped.

And despite himself, Frodo smiled.

* * *

When Arndís, wife of Thrór, gave birth to baby Thráin, the King Under the Mountain carved out a passage behind the statue of Durin at the end of the main corridor of the Royal Chambers. It stretched down in two forks, one which exited via an invisible door into one of the servants' corridors, and another that ran deep into a cavern in the very heart of the mountain. Both were protected with every spell that he knew, and both were known only to his closest kin, and the most trusted of his guards.

Over two hundred years later, the passages still stood, and though the dwarves who knew the truth and held the keys had changed, they were still the king's closest guards and kin. The doors could not be opened without a key, nor easily found by anyone who did not already know where they were – so someone Thorin trusted had unlocked the door.

It made him feel sick, and violently so, to think that he had been betrayed in such a callous act, to know that someone he had entrusted his life to had let a pack of orcs in to where his family sheltered, and as he hurried down the passage, all he could think of was revenge.

The passage itself was dark, and cold, but as it began to curve and the door to the servants' corridor neared, it grew lighter, and Thorin could see bodies strewn across the ground. Some were orcs, but others were dwarves – maybe two dozen of them, and three, at least, were children. A lump grew in Thorin's throat, and he moved faster, and then he caught sight of the face of a dwarf lying in the doorway, and his heart twisted.

Covered in blood, with his broken body wedging open the secret door, was Joren – Joren who Thorin had known since before Smaug took Erebor, Joren whose son Ehren had been close as kin to Fíli and Kíli all their lives. Joren, who was now draped over another, huddled body, his head tilted back, and his eyes closed. Blood dripped down from the corner of his mouth, and his arm had been thrown across the woman beside him. She was lying on her stomach, hunched over the same huddled body as Joren, and even before he saw her face, Thorin recognised the dark, black curls of Thora, Joren's wife.

As Mikel and Colburn checked every dwarven body, pressing their fingers to even the bloodiest neck in hopes of finding a pulse, Thorin knelt at Joren's side and reached for his wrist, his heart stuttering with hope as he felt a pulse.

"Joren?" he said, shifting his grip to take his friend's hand, and shaking his shoulder gently. "Joren, can you hear me?"

Joren shifted, and his eyes fluttered open, finding Thorin through a haze of pain. "Th…Thorin?"

"Joren…" Thorin shifted his grip, holding the dwarf's hand tighter. "Breathe now, my friend, it's alright. We will get you to a healer soon. Just hold on a while longer."

"Thora?" The name broke painfully from Joren's lips, and Thorin glanced at the woman slumped at Joren's side. Mikel was kneeling over her, his hand putting pressure on a wound to her back.

"She's alive, Joren," the guard said. "Unconscious, but alive."

Joren sobbed, and closed his eyes, his hand growing tighter around Thorin's arm. "Ehren… where's Ehren?"

Thorin glanced over the bodies on the floor in alarm, but he caught no sight of Ehren's face, nor even of his curly hair. "He is not here," he said carefully. "Was he with you at the door?"

Shaking his head, Joren took a deep breath. "No… I… I don't, I don't… know where he is… My king… forgive me… I meant not… to betray you…" A sigh rattled painfully from Joren's chest, and he opened his palm, revealing an old, bloody key. "No… nowhere else to go… surrounded… I thought I, thought we would… would make it. B-but the orcs… their arrows struck me down, I, I blocked the doorway… tried to move, but… but they s-struck me again, I… I couldn't move… forgive me. Forgive me."

His heart growing heavier by the moment, Thorin glanced over the dwarves lying dead on the floor, at a child lying just feet away from him with her eyes wide open, and unseeing. He understood now, understood as clearly as he understood his own name. If he had been in Joren's shoes, with children to protect and but one chance to save them, Thorin would have taken that door too.

A tear ran down Joren's cheek and he coughed, his head tilting down towards his life. "Tried… I tried, but… couldn't… couldn't protect… them all… Just… just a few…" Joren breathed, pulling himself up towards Thorin. Carefully as he could, Thorin pulled the other dwarf into a sitting position, and a small whimper came from the body below. At once, Balin was there, ripping aside the large cloak to reveal two tiny dwarflings, no older than toddlers, cowering over a small bundle that squirmed beneath them. A baby.

"By Mahal," breathed Balin, and at once Colburn swooped past him, bending down and scooping the trio of sniffling children into his arms. The oldest, a red-haired boy, gave a small sob and clung to him tightly, but the girl looked catatonic, and the baby barely moved at all.

"F-forgive me." Joren shuddered, clutching at Thorin's arm. "My king…"

Thorin shook his head, easing the warrior back down onto the ground and bundling the old cloak beneath his head. "Hush, my friend. There is nothing to forgive. You did well – you did what I would have done. Hold still, now. Colburn, go back up to the Royal Chambers and leave the children in the charge of Dana. Fetch five more guards, have them come down to help us move the injured back up into Kíli's room."

"I'll be quick, my lord," promised Colburn, disappearing back up the corridor.

As Colburn left, Joren took another shuddering breath, and whispered, "Please… Please, Thorin, don't… don't tell… Don't tell Ehren… he… he would be ashamed."

"No, he wouldn't," said Thorin sharply, even as he peeled away the blood-soaked dressing gown clinging to the dwarf's torso.

When he saw the wound, Thorin felt like a sword had been driven through his own gut. It looked like an axe blow, and on sight alone, the king knew that no dwarf alive had any chance of healing such a wound. Perhaps an elf might try, but the only elves they had were barely conscious, and in no state to heal. A miracle might spare Joren, but Thorin knew all he could do was pray

"Ehren will not be ashamed," he said, more softly, and he removed his coat, tucking it around his friend's chin to try and make him a little more comfortable. "He will know of the heroics of his father, and the lives you saved. Those three babes live because of you, Joren. Without you, they would have died, and the orcs slew no one upstairs. You committed no treason, you have caused no harm to your king. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Joren shook his head slightly, his face twisted in pain. "Ehren… I just… just want to… to see Ehren… Thorin, I, I just want to know, to know he's alive… Just for a moment…"

"Then hold on." It took every ounce of Thorin's strength to keep his voice calm, to stop himself from begging. "Just for a little while. We will find Ehren, we will bring him to you."

"Please," begged Joren, opening his eyes and searching for Thorin through a haze of pain and tears. "Please… I just… just want t', t'see Ehren. Just once… just once… please..."

Behind him, Thorin heard the thundering footsteps of the other guards, but he did not turn to look at them. He knew that they were lifting away the survivors, clearing the corpses to the side, but he kept his eyes on Joren, and held his hand close in his own. "You will. Ehren will be here soon."

One of the guards knelt down and murmured to Mikel, who nodded, and then eased Thora up into his arms, rising steadily and disappearing back down the tunnel.

"Thora…" whispered Joren, as the new guard turned to Thorin, nodding down at Joren, but the king shook his head.

"They are taking her to be healed," Thorin said, looking back down to meet Joren's eye as the new guard moved on. "She will be with Dís, and Dana, and they will care for her."

Joren sobbed, his eyes meeting Thorin's once again. In that instant, Thorin knew that Joren understood why no one was taking him, too, why Thorin kept him lying on the stone floor. Tears welled in his eyes, and he swallowed, grappling for Thorin's hand with weakening fingers.

"Ehren…" he pleaded. "Just… just till Ehren… Ehren…"

Thorin pursed his lips as Joren's eyes fluttered shut, and his head slipped down to the side. He drew in a weak, rattling breath, and then another, and Thorin swallowed.

"Balin-" he broke off, and closed his eyes.

"Thorin?" Balin pressed, and when Thorin shook his head, he sighed. "Do… do you want me to search for Ehren?"

Though he did wish it, though he wanted Ehren to reach them more than almost anything, Thorin shook his head. "It's too dangerous, and there's little chance of your finding him," muttered Thorin, dashing his sleeve against his eyes and then tucking the coat tighter around Joren's chin. "He could be anywhere."

"Understood," said Balin, his voice trembling. "But do you want me to try?"

"If…" Thorin swallowed, and closed his eyes for a moment. "No, Balin. No."

Balin took a deep breath, and then turned away, pressing his fist to his mouth.

"Hold on, Joren," Thorin murmured, squeezing his friend's hand and leaning closer, but Joren's breathing grew shallower, weaker. "Joren? Hang on my friend, just a little while longer. Ehren is coming… Ehren is coming…"

But Joren's last breath rattled from his lips and his hand fell limp, and Thorin hung his head. He pressed his fingers to Joren's throat, but the pulse was gone. As his heart crumpled within him, he eased his arms beneath Joren's body and shifted him to the side of the tunnel, pulling his coat up over his friend's face.

With a heavy sigh, he stood, and glanced up at Balin. The rest of the guards had all returned up to the royal chambers, which meant that at least five of the dozen dwarves on the floor were breathing, and that Balin and Thorin were alone.

Thorin sighed. "We've lingered long enough. I am going back to the battle – I don't like the thought of those explosions we heard. If this mountain is to fall, I'm going to fall in the fighting."

"Agreed," said Balin, though Thorin noticed that he was shifting his injured arm.

Together, they raised their swords and slid out of the door, but they found no orcs in the servants' corridor, nor did they see any when they reached the main streets of the city. They saw several corpses, mainly of orcs, but no living goblins, and with every moment of their absence, Thorin's skin crawled a little more.

"Let's work our way back 'round to the stairway," murmured Balin. "See if the bastards have done any damage to the door yet, or if we can slow them down. "

"Agreed," said Thorin, adjusting his course towards the main entrance of the Royal Chambers. As they drew nearer, Thorin began to hear the shouting – urgent yells in dwarven voices, and he ran faster, ignoring the pain in his leg and hurrying around the corner with his sword raised –

And he saw the aftermath of a battle.

His jaw dropped open, and for a moment the King Under the Mountain was so stunned that he could not speak. Sprawled over his marble staircase and littered across his halls were the corpses of nearly a hundred orcs, and standing above them was a small company of dwarves, no more than a dozen or so. Bombur was among them, and several others Thorin recognised, and then with a start he saw Bofur and Dori, both on their knees at the base of the stairs.

And then he saw Nori cradled in Bofur's lap, spitting up blood as Dori pressed down on his leg.

"I said get me a damn healer, now!" Dori yelled, his face red as his brother's spilling blood, and Thorin stumbled forward.

"What happened?" he demanded, hurrying to Dori's side even as he dodged the twisted, charred corpses of the orcs. "I thought you had left!"

Nori gave a harsh laugh of indignation, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "We're desperate, Thorin, but we ain't desperate enough to leave our kingdom while it's being ripped to shreds. And I think, what you mean to say was 'thank you.'"

"Stop talking," ordered Dori, snatching a belt offered by Bombur and looping it deftly around the top of his brother's thigh.

"Why? The damned thing went through my leg, not my throat," Nori complained, staring bitterly down at the wounded limb. "Fat chance I have of reaching Nelly now."

Thorin shook his head slowly. "I don't understand. We heard explosions, we thought the orcs had their great flash-flames within the mountain."

"Nope," said Bofur, and when he looked up to meet Thorin's eye, the king saw a jagged, angry slash carved into the miner's face, missing his right eye by less than an inch and sweeping down towards his throat. It was still oozing blood, but Bofur was grinning with grim satisfaction. "Those'd be _our_ great flash flames. Courtesy of Nori here, and of a couple of orcs."

"We wanted to turn back the moment we saw what was going on at the gates," Dori said grimly. "But Nori had another idea."

"From what we heard and what we saw, I figured they must've used some kind of explosive," said Nori, grimacing as his brother twisted the tourniquet tighter. "Something big. And the timing – that was a dead giveaway – ain't gonna be a coincidence that they figure themselves out a way to break down the gates of Erebor the day after a messenger from Saruman turns up at the door. I also reckoned that there'd probably be more than one. Not loads – the uruk-hai must've hauled them from Isengard, and there wasn't exactly an army of them, but they'd want more than one. _Ow_! Dori, so help me I will rip out your beard!"

Dori scowled. "Forgive me for trying to save your sorry life." He sighed, wiped his forehead, and looked up at Thorin. "We thought that the other explosives would most likely be in Dale."

 _"We?"_

"We all know you were the one that figured it out, Nori," said Bofur, wincing as Bombur began to dab at the wound on his face with a clean handkerchief.

"Well, it made the most sense," the spymaster grumbled. "They'd want to stash 'em somewhere safe, wouldn't want to use 'em all at once. And Dale was the best bet. So we snuck in."

"You snuck into Dale?" asked Balin, his eyes widening. "But – but the city's been crawling for weeks."

"They'd sent most of the forces out," said Bofur. "Probably hoping to wipe us out in one fell sweep. There were a couple of men left behind, but nothing we couldn't take care of."

"Dori earned himself a stab or two in the old marketplace," said Nori darkly, but his brother shook the words off with a shrug. He had already moved onto ripping apart Nori's trousers to start cleaning the wound.

"I'm fine. Just a couple of flesh wounds. It took us an hour or two, but we found them – great balls of iron, they were, like a flash-flame ten times the normal size, and spiked like a mace. There were four of them."

"And we took them straight to Dale's catapults," said Nori smugly. "Remember those things, the ones that'd fling their load at the drop of a coin? Well, Mordor left them be – seemed to think their own catapults better."

"So, we loaded up the explosives, and made a fuse or four," said Dori, pulling a vial from one of his pockets and flicking off the stopper. As he began to smear ointment onto the edges of Nori's wound, he too gave a grin of satisfaction. "And we flung them into the army from behind."

"That was the best part," said Bofur, grinning so widely that fresh blood began to dribble down his cheek, and Bombur swatted the back of his head lightly. "The damn orcs thought the Easterlings had turned on them, so they started laying into them, and soon they were all fighting amongst themselves! We managed to slip out of the city and Nori nicked a horse-"

"A horse?" asked Bombur, earning him a withering look from Nori.

"Well, the Easterlings hardly brought war goats with them," he said. "We reckoned we couldn't _quite_ take on an army with just the three of us, even from behind, so we made for the Hidden Door, but by the time we got there the Easterlings had wiped out a few hundred orcs themselves, and our catapults did no small amount of damage. When we made it back in, we ran into Bombur, who said Fíli was holding down the wall well enough, but that you'd last been seen with a hundred goblins on your tail, so we turned this way."

"Made a stop at the armoury to grab some more flash-flames first though," said Bofur. "And it just so happened that Nori had taken a vial or two of the powder from Saruman's weapons, so we sprinkled some of that in there too."

Balin made a startled sound in the back of his throat, and Nori snorted. "Dori gave me that look too, but do you see any living orcs here?"

Thorin glanced at the corpses around them. One of the nearest orcs' faces seemed to have melted, and Thorin's gut turned uncomfortably. He was getting too old for this.

"One lived long enough to put a sword through your thigh," said Dori, but before Nori could retort, Thorin held up his hand.

"Thank you," he said, slowly putting his hand over his heart and bowing. "Thank you, for coming back. I know… I know it cannot have been easy. If we survive this, I will do everything in my power to bring Nelly and Bróin home, and make sure this delay has not cost them."

At once, the smile in Nori's eyes died, and he nodded, staring down at his wounded leg. "Aye," he said quietly. "I know… I just hope it's not too late."

"What I don't understand is why they didn't wait," said Dori, pausing in his work to cast Thorin a worried look. "There was supposed to be time for someone to pay the randsome – even if they thought we wouldn't, it's a simple enough strategy, to let us stew and suffer for a while."

Thorin nodded slowly. "That thought had passed my mind too. But the battle here is not over yet – we must see it through before we start another fight. You said Fíli was still holding the wall?"

"The last we saw," confirmed Bombur.

Thorin bowed his head. "Very well. Dori, Bofur, Bombur, get Nori up into Kíli's room. If anyone else is wounded, go with them, but the rest of you, follow me."

Without waiting to see who was coming with him, Thorin began to head for the gates, running as fast as he physically could. Something dangerous was stirring in his heart – a blind hope that this battle might not destroy his entire family, or raze his whole city. The hope pumped through his veins with every beat of his heart, and as they drew closer to the gates, he realised that the sounds of battle were indeed far less than what he had left.

Instead, a cheer was rising, a swell of dwarven voices ringing out in what might even be victory, and Thorin ran faster, pushing until his knee buckled a little with every step, but he did not stop until he reached the gate, and burst out onto the balcony. All about him, his soldiers were cheering, punching the air with their fists and leaping up and down on the spot, and Thorin felt his heart soar within him.

The battlefield was far from empty, but instead of rows upon rows of orcs and Easterlings ready for battle, there were only corpses, and the last of the hosts of Mordor were fleeing back into Dale, pursued by an army of dwarves that roared 'victory!' to the skies.

"What happened?" Balin breathed, and the Captain on the balcony turned with a laugh.

"The prince led a charge!" he cried. "The armies of Mordor were struck from behind with the malice of their own design, and they began to slay each other, and when he saw what was done Prince Fíli led a charge, the likes of which I have never seen! The enemy fled before him and he cut them down as though they were but dolls – it was as though Durin himself was leading us once again, and our army rallied, and – I think that we've won!"

Thorin's heart pounded fast and fierce against his ribs, and he watched the tail end of the group of dwarves disappear into Dale behind their foes. Even as the call rang through the mountain that the battle was won, Thorin clutched the railing of the balcony with white knuckles, and looked to Dale.

He stared, and stared, until at last he saw it – the army of dwarves marching back, flooding out of Dale and towards Erebor and singing as they came, singing angry songs of victory and vengeance and justice, and at their head was one with golden hair that glinted in the rising sun.

But Thorin lingered in fear, refusing to add his voice to the shouts of relief and pride that surrounded him, and he strained his eyes as far as they could reach, until finally he made out the face of the warrior with the golden hair, and his knees gave way beneath him. Beside him Balin sobbed, and a pride more strong and pure than any Thorin had ever felt rose within him.

Fíli.

He was alive, and he was standing – marching, even. He was whole, and he was alive, and Thorin felt tears sting at his eyes as he raised his shaking sword towards the heavens.

Then, at last, Thorin threw back his head, and let his own voice join the chorus. "We have victory!"

 **I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I hope the battle ending this way didn't feel like much of an anti-climax – aspects of what happened will be shown in more detail later, but I'd like to think this chapter stands on its own well enough too.**

 **If you fancy reviewing, I would absolutely adore that – I hope to update soon, but life is being rather inconvenient towards my fanfiction right now, so I'll just have to do my best.**

 **Until next time, please take care!**


	101. Chapter 101: The Wounded and the Weary

**Hey there guys! I'm so sorry it's been such a long time since I last updated – it has been a very, very busy month featuring lots of work, a bout of illness (nothing serious, just annoying) and, excitingly, finally finishing a first draft of my own novel! Still needs an awful lot of work, of course, but it's nice to be able to say I'm getting there. Anyway, I'm back now, and though I struggled with this chapter I'm finally happy to put it up. As ever, please forgive any typos, and I hope that you enjoy it!**

 **Chapter One Hundred and One: The Wounded and the Weary**

The cool red glow of the morning bled out onto the plains before Erebor, glinting off of the rubble and the ruins, and glancing over the faces of the dead. Most of the corpses beyond the mountains were those of orcs, their black armour blending one body into the next until they took on the appearance of a vast, dark sea. There were cresting waves of piled warriors in places where a particularly talented dwarf had made a stand, and islands of scorched earth where the flash-flames of Erebor had landed, and soon the crows would come to feast on the dead, a shadow of the gulls of the sea.

Beyond the ocean of the orcs were the bulk of the bodies of the Easterling army, many of whom had been stuck with the swords and scimitars of their 'allies' before the dwarves could ever reach them. What remained of the barricade of the armies of Mordor was adorned with the bodies of its creators, but fire of the dwarves gnawed at the dark wood with ravenous hunger, sending the barricade crumbling to the ground, and devouring the bodies in its path.

The trail of the dead continued up into Dale. About a hundred of the bodies were stone cold long before morning, but not all who had been slain in the city had been felled by Nori, Dori and Bofur. Others were crowded in mangled piles in the streets, cut down as they fled from the ire of Fíli and the dwarves who followed him. They had left none alive.

None, that was, except the women they found, and a small handful of unarmed slaves who had been discovered cowering beneath the altar of an old temple. On Fíli's orders, the dwarves marched them down to the dungeons, deep in the rock beneath Dale, and there they were locked until further notice. Some of the women were obviously the wives of high-ranking generals or soldiers, proud and cold, and adorned with stolen gems. Most were younger, dirtier, and quite clearly terrified beyond measure.

The dwarves left the prisoners there, secure in the dungeons, and made their way back down through the city – back onto the battlefield. As the adrenalin of battle began to wear off, they looked out and felt grief puncture the swell of victory within them.

There before them, lying broken in the blood of their foes, were one hundred and twelve dwarves of Erebor. They had been among those who had followed Fíli in their last, desperate hope, and they were those who had fallen in the fighting. Five hundred still followed Fíli, and now they found a path to each of the fallen, lifting them up from the battlefield and cradling them in weary arms. A few still clung to life, and their faces lolled against the chests of their brothers in arms as they were carried back home, but most were already gone.

So many were dead.

And in each of their hearts, the dwarves of Erebor knew that those who fell on the battlefield had been the lucky ones. Most had been warriors by trade, and those who were not were at least of age, and fighting by choice. Unlike those who died in the mountain.

The dwarves who marched back home knew that they were marching towards a bloodbath, towards women and children and old folk who had been butchered in their homes, and cut down as they fled screaming through the streets. For some – for many – they were marching back towards their own murdered families.

Some of them already knew it, and marched bowed beneath the weight of their grief, but others did not yet know their families' fates, and bowed to fear instead.

Yet even as they bowed, they marched, making their way home with all the strength that they could muster, and as the sun rose higher into the morning few of them had ever hoped to see, Fíli reached the gates of Erebor. Standing outside them, before the rubble, was a single dwarf, and as he raised his hand in greeting, Fíli felt relief flood over his entire being.

Thorin.

As he raised his own hand in reply, a lump rose in Fíli's throat, and he took a deep breath.

He wanted to run to his uncle, to fall into his arms and cling to him with all the strength he had left. He wanted Thorin to rock him from side to side, to stroke his hair and tell him that it was over now, to comfort him before the despair of what he had seen and heard and done could seep into his heart.

But he knew he could not have that. He was the Crown Prince, and his uncle was King, and it would be Fíli's duty to wait until they were alone to seek comfort. He had held it together for the entirety of the battle, and that was why his people had followed him. They needed to see him strong, imperturbable, they needed their Lion Prince.

And he could hold on. He could hold on until he got home, at least.

But moment he got within arm's reach, Thorin's face crumpled, and the king fell forward, snatching Fíli into his arms. With no trace of decorum or majesty, Thorin squeezed him so tightly that his ribs hurt, and sank his fingers deep into Fíli's hair.

"Fíli," he whispered, and his voice shook slightly. "Fíli… I'm so proud of you. I'm so proud of you."

The strength in Fíli's knees gave way for a moment, and he fought to keep the tears at bay as he clung to Thorin. "Thank you, Uncle."

For a wonderful moment, a safe moment, he returned the embrace, but then he forced himself to pull away, and bow low, and Thorin bowed his head in return. Then, with a small smile, the king turned, and led Fíli and his troops through a small path in the rubble at the gates, and back up into their mountain.

The entrance hall behind the gates was teeming, filled with soldiers both dwarf and man running to and fro, and as soon as Fíli and his men spilled inside, a group of two dozen dwarves surged forward to begin to seal the gap in the gate.

Thorin turned to address Fíli's troops, but before he could speak, Dwalin surged forward from the throng, wrapping the king into a great bear hug.

"Thorin! You should have _seen_ him… Fíli – the lad was like one of the Valar!"

Fíli felt his cheeks glow pink as others around murmured in assent and he shook his head slightly. "I did only what any dwarf would do for his people. I saw a chance to charge, and prevent them returning with reinforcements, so I took it."

"And freed both Erebor and the city of Dale," pointed out Dwalin, still grinning. He clapped his hand onto Fíli's shoulder and shook him slightly.

"I heard," Thorin murmured, smiling proudly. "And I saw." Then, the king drew himself up and placed his hand over his heart, addressing the throng of weary soldiers. "Thank you, my brothers and sisters. We have won a great victory today, one that few deemed possible, and the cost is even higher than I feared. However, Una's Doors remain secure, and no blood was spilt behind them. Those within the sanctuary know of our victory, any by their will we will keep them sheltered there until we can be sure the danger has passed. There may yet be orcs in this mountain, and we will not let them touch one more child!"

A roar of furious assent rose behind Fíli, and he added his own voice up into it, anger and grief and despair swelling within his heart at the thought of all the children already lost, and of those still sheltering in Una's Halls, when they should be tucked up in bed.

When it was quiet again, Thorin continued. "Would that I could send you all to rest, but our work is not yet done. For the wounded, Lord Balin has set up a temporary healing house in the First Ballroom, and healers are being escorted up from Una's Halls as we speak. When we are certain it is safe enough, those with enough strength will be moved to the Healing Halls, but for now, take all who are wounded to the First Ballroom. The dead are being laid in the Hall of Kings. Those of you with strength left to fight, report to Lady Rúna in the Great Guard Hall – she is heading the hunt for any scum left within our mountain, and more importantly the search for survivors. I know your hearts are heavy, for mine weighs more than the mountain, but I implore you, children of Durin, to hold to your strength, and make safe this city."

A sombre call rose up from the crowd, and when the king bowed his head, the army bowed back. Then, they began to disperse, and despite his fatigue, Fíli knew he would be heading to the Great Guard Hall.

Before he could take a step, however, Thorin took his arm, and glanced at those directly behind. "Ehren, Bragi, Dwalin, if you would wait too, a moment." The others nodded, and Ragan hesitated for a moment, before bowing low.

"I will be with Lady Rúna, should you need me," he said to Bragi, squeezing his son's arm for a moment before disappearing into the crowd.

Thorin's eyes lingered on Ragan's back for a moment, the grief in his gaze growing heavier, and then he turned to look at Ehren, and Fíli's heart sank down into his stomach. He knew that face, that face that meant news beyond simply 'bad', that face that meant news of death, and from the way that the colour drained from Ehren's face, Ehren knew too.

"I'm so sorry, Ehren," the king said softly, stepping forward and squeezing Ehren's shoulder tightly. "Your father… he fell in the fighting. He's gone."

Ehren flinched as though he had been slapped, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away. Grief striking him in the heart, Fíli reached out for Ehren's hand, feeling his friend's fingers tremble as they wound around his own. Even as he did, Bragi stepped forward and wrapped his arm around Ehren's shoulders, and Ehren took a deep, shuddering breath.

His grip on Fíli's hand grew painfully tight, and he whispered in a broken voice, "My mother?"

"Alive, when last I saw her, but she is wounded," said Thorin gravely. "I will not lie to you – she was not conscious. But she was alive."

"What happened?" Ehren's voice caught in his throat, and he opened tearful eyes to look at Thorin. "Where – where is she?"

"Your father made a choice, Ehren, a brave one," said Thorin, but Fíli could see he was choosing his words carefully. "He had a group of children in his charge, but they were hounded by orcs, and cornered in one of the servants' passageways. He had the key to the Royal Chambers' backdoor, and he judged that they might make it. He chose to try for the sake of the children in his care, and he saved at least three of them, but the orcs shot him down, and the doorway was wedged open. Despite his best efforts, the orcs reached the Royal Chambers."

Fíli's stomach clenched, and his throat burnt with the sharp gasp he drew to speak. "What? Thorin-"

"No one was killed," said Thorin, though his eyes were dark with worry, "but Bilbo took a nasty blow to the head, and your mother… she was not touched, but the fear is not good for her. I want to make it very clear that there was no treason – Joren thought he could save the lives of innocent children, and if he'd had a spark more luck, he might've made it. He – he held on long enough that I was with him when he passed… he died a hero, Ehren, I promise you that. Your mother is in the Royal Chambers, too."

Ehren nodded weakly, his lower lip trembling, and Fíli swallowed, taking a deep breath and praying with all his heart that Bilbo was alright, because if he was not…

"I think you should go to your mother," said Thorin, reaching over to squeeze Fíli's shoulder tightly. The king's face was pale and grey, and beneath the strength and pride in his eyes a flame of fear still flickered. "I'm afraid that her fear will hurt her, she needs you, now."

Fíli glanced at the dwarves moving so desperately around him, and though all he wanted was to run to his mother's side, he knew that his duty was to stay.

"You've done more than I could ever ask of you, Fíli," Thorin murmured, putting his hand on the side of Fíli's cheek. "But your mother needs you now, and I need you to go to her."

His fear rising, Fíli swallowed and nodded. "Then in that case, I'm already gone."

A sad smile tugged at Thorin's cheek, and Fíli tried to reply with a smile of his own, but the motion tugged the painful gash in his cheek, and he winced a little. Thorin's smile faded, and he sighed. "Go together, all three of you, and go quickly. The mountain is not safe. Dwalin, we have work to do."

Fíli gave a short bow and turned to the road towards the royal chambers, moving as quickly as decorum would allow – until they were out of sight of the entrance hall, at least.

As soon as they were out of sight, the three young dwarves set to a run, tearing past the bloodied corpses of orcs and dwarves and men and racing through scorched and smouldering halls. A selfish hope that they would not run into anyone injured burnt in Fíli's chest. He wanted to find his mother, to make sure that she was safe, that Bilbo was fine, and he knew that Ehren must yearn for his own mother with equal anguish, or perhaps even more so.

Whether by luck, or the twisted answer to his prayer, their path was clear of all but corpses, yet the closer they drew to the Royal Chambers the smell of smoke grew stronger, and Fíli's heart thrummed against his ribcage. Was his home burning? Was his mother choking on smoke, were her babies suffocating within her?

He swallowed, and pushed his arms faster, forcing the 'what if's as far into the back of his mind as he could manage. If Ehren could stand on his own two feet, run just as fast as Fíli already knowing that his father was dead, Fíli could keep it together.

The trio burst out into the hallway before the entrance of Fíli's home, and there they skidded to a halt. The marble staircase was almost utterly black, scorched by flame and stained by orc blood, and piled over the stairs and the stone were the corpses of more than a hundred orcs.

He glanced at Ehren and Bragi, and then, without word or sign, the three sprang forward, leaping over corpse after corpse and scrambling up the stairs as quickly as they could. The door was closed, sealed, and the hall was silent, but fear gripped Fíli so tightly that he could barely breathe. With a start, he realised that he did not have a key, so he drew a long, deep breath and pounded his fist against the wall, knocking the short, rhythmic rap of a pass code. There was a pause, longer than usual, and then the door eased open a crack. An eye appeared in the gap, and then it disappeared, and the door was pulled open. The guard bowed them through the door and closed it firmly behind them as another soldier stepped forward. "They are all in your brother's room, your highness. May I ask, how goes the battle?"

"It is over," said Fíli, his eyes drawn to the orc corpses piled against the far wall, and his gut churned. "We won."

A startled laugh of relief rippled over the soldiers in the hallway, and Fíli allowed it gladly. He did not blame them for being relieved, delighted, even. They did not yet know the cost of victory.

He glanced at the floor, pretending that the red and black splattered across the stone was paint, and not blood, and trying not to remember all he had seen. He could not stop the faces of the children he had found from passing before his eyes, the ones he had not reached in time.

There were so many.

But he only allowed himself a moment to be overwhelmed – just a moment. That was all he had time for, and all he could afford. Already, the thrill of battle was wearing away, and the horror was clinging to his bones. His knees felt weak, and his chest tight as a bowstring, and he steeled himself, knocking out the passcode once again.

After an achingly long moment, a guard opened the door, and Fíli hurried inside.

There were another couple of guards in Kíli's sitting room, and they were lining up a row of bodies – the bodies of the dead. Fíli's eyes scanned the row, and pain punctured his heart at every face he recognised. Most were dwarves he knew only by name, but among them was Joren, and as soon as Ehren saw his face he let out a strangled moan. At once, Fíli turned, grabbing his friend's elbow before his buckling knees could bring him to the ground, and Ehren seized his arm in a grip like a vice.

"Adad…" he whispered, pressing his forehead into Fíli's shoulder and leaning against him.

"I'm so sorry, Ehren," Fíli murmured, tears stinging the back of his eyes as his friend gave a sob.

Drawing in a deep, shuddering breath, Ehren nodded, and then he looked up. "Amad," he said quietly. "Thorin, Thorin said that she was still alive."

"She's in there, with the others," said one of the guards, nodding at Kíli's bedroom.

Ehren swallowed, staring longingly at his father. "I… I – I'll come back, Ada…"

Fíli pursed his trembling lips and nodded, taking Ehren's hand in his own as Bragi wiped his eyes with his sleeve, leaving a smear of blood across his face in the process. Taking a deep breath, Fíli glanced down at his own arms and hands, at the thick blood both red and black that covered them. Some was his own. Most was not. He was sure that between himself, Bragi, and Ehren, they looked like a horror story brought to life, that they should probably clean up, but he could not bear to wait another moment. He stepped forward, and when Ehren tore his eyes away from Joren to follow, Fíli moved faster, pulling open Kíli's bedroom door and tumbling inside –

And freezing where he stood.

Kíli's room no longer looked like a bedroom – it looked like an emergency healing tent, complete with the smell of blood and sweat and ointment. The first thing Fíli saw was Tauriel, lying on the floor beside Elbeth, tucked beneath the duvet from Fíli's own bed. Both elves were pale as paper, unconscious and still, and though Fíli could see their chests rising and falling, they were clearly weak.

A foot or so away from the elves lay two young dwarves, both strangers, and both clearly still in their early teens, and they too were unconscious. Mikel, one of Thorin's most trusted guards, was crouching above them, tending to their wounds. Behind him – to Fíli's surprise, were a trio of dwarves he had not expected to see – Nori, Dori, and Bofur were tucked against the far wall of Kíli's room.

Nori was sleeping, his head pillowed in Dori's lap and a cape thrown over his legs, but Bofur was upright, wincing as Dori stitched up a deep gash in the side of his face.

On the floor on the other side of the bed were another two unknown dwarves, both half-clad in armour. One was awake, gazing blearily up at the ceiling as the other slumbered, and beside them, with an angry, swollen gash on her forehead, was Thora. Fíli's heart stuttered when he saw her, but he could see her chest rise and fall, and he took a deep breath of his own, and glanced over the others who were there.

Behind Thora and the strangers, huddled up in a pile of pillows and blankets on top of Kíli's chest of drawers, were two toddlers and a baby, nestled in Aria's arms. To Fíli's utter relief they looked largely unharmed – Aria was helping them drink milky tea from small wooden cups.

Dana, Glóin and Bombur were bustling around the room with blankets and bandages and cups of water, though they all stopped to look up when Fíli walked in, and Jari was leaning against the side of the bed, running his hand through Ari's hair. His younger brother was sleeping on the far end of Kíli's bed, his face pale and his breathing shallow, and Vinca was beside him, tucked between Ari and Kíli with a bucket in her lap. She looked a little green, but when she saw Fíli she gave a small smile and raised her hand in a wave, and as she did Kíli slumped in relief beside her.

He was propped up on pillows with his arms around Bilbo, who was lying so close that he was all but on top of Kíli, and both Bagginses eyes filled with tears as they gazed at Fíli across the room. Relief sank deep into Fíli's own heart, relief that he could see tears in Bilbo's eyes, that the hobbit was alive, and awake, and alert enough to see that Fíli had come home. And then Fíli's eyes finally, finally fell on the seat beside the bed – on his mother.

While most in the room were pale and ashen, Dís' cheeks were flushed red, and her hands were clutching Bilbo's with a white-knuckled grip. Wisps of her hair were stuck to the tear tracks running down her face, and when she saw Fíli she sobbed, and dropped her head into her free hand.

Fíli tried to smile, but it was Ehren who moved first.

"Amad," he breathed, stumbling his way through the maze of dwarves on the floor and crumpling to his knees at Thora's side. Though she was breathing, she did not respond to her son, not even when Ehren took her hand and squeezed it. "Ama?"

"We think it was just one blow," said Dana swiftly, stepping forward to put her hand on Ehren's shoulder. "She's got no other visible injuries."

"One's enough," said Ehren thickly, and then he said nothing else, slumping down onto the ground beside her. A lump grew in Fíli's throat, but then his brother spoke, stealing his attention.

"Fee? Are – are you alright?" Kíli asked weakly, and as he did Dís sobbed again, seeming to grow smaller in her chair.

"I'm fine - it's alright," he said softly, crossing through room as quickly as he could. He held out his hand, more than aware that he was covered in blood, and sweat, and orc guts, but Dís pulled him close, falling against him and dragging him into an embrace even tighter than Thorin's. "It's alright, Ama, it's over now. It's all over, it's all over now, I'm here."

"Your, your face," she whispered, looking up with bloodshot eyes. Her hand rose towards the gash on his cheek, but then her fingers clenched and drew back, and her lip began to tremble. "Oh, Fíli…"

"It's alright," he murmured. "I'm alright, Amad, I'll be fine. It barely hurts anymore, I promise. It's alright. It's over, now."

"How?" asked Vinca, her voice hoarse and disbelieving, her eyes dark with the shadow of war. "I, I saw what was out there – how is it _over?"_

"We got lucky," said Fíli bluntly, before anyone could crow about his so-called 'heroics' again. "Someone fired the enemy's great flash-flames into them from behind, and the armies of Mordor turned on each other – some alliance that was."

"No luck involved lad," said Dori, a heavy frown of concentration carved into his face as his needle drew close to Bofur's eye. "That would've been us, catapulting the explosives right into the bastards that made them."

Fíli's eyes widened, but then he felt a grin creep onto his cheeks despite himself. "That… makes more sense. Then we owe this victory to you three – it was their turning on each other that decimated the numbers enough for us to charge. It was bloody work, but we won. We won…"

"How many did we lose?" asked Dís, her voice tight with a pain that told Fíli she had already guessed the answer. He swallowed, and nodded.

"Too many. Too many innocent people… The warning came too late for those nearest the door to have a chance to evacuate. It was only thanks to Ari and Vinca that those further back had a chance to flee, but even so… it…" He closed his eyes and shook his head slightly, and then he looked at Bilbo. "How are you, Bilbo? Thorin said you took a nasty blow."

The hobbit smiled wryly, reaching up to rub his head. "Well, it wasn't a nice one, but I'm sure I'll be alright."

Fíli glanced at Kíli, who tightened his arms around the hobbit and gave a small nod. "He'll be fine."

"Good to know I have a choice in the matter," said Bilbo lightly, but there was fear tight in his eyes, and Fíli glanced down at his mother.

"And you, Amad? Thorin sounded worried."

Dís gave a small hybrid of a sob and a laugh and shook her head, pressing her hand to her mouth for a moment. "It… it has been a somewhat stressful evening."

"When Bilbo – he was unconscious, for a few minutes, and Amad… Amad had a couple of contractions," said Kíli, and though his voice was careful, Fíli could see the fear in his brother's eyes.

Even as panic seized Fíli's heart, Dana looked up, though she kept her arm around Ehren as she did. "We've managed to get her blood pressure down, though, and there hasn't been any sign of another contraction since," she said calmly. "It's not unheard of for pregnant women to show such signs in a time of great stress, but as long as we keep you calm and quiet, I don't think we have to worry about these little ones being battle-born. Not yet, at least."

Dís shuddered, squeezing Fíli's fingers tightly. "There's four," she murmured. "Tauriel says there are four."

"Four what?"

"Babies."

It took a moment for the word to sink in, but when it did Fíli's knees shook beneath him, and he felt the blood drain out of his face. " _Four_? Is, is such a thing even possible?"

"Yes," said Kíli at once, but his voice was tight, afraid, and Fíli felt hope and horror start up a tug of war over his heart.

He stared incredulously at the elf on the ground. "She does not look well – she could be mistaken…"

"From what she said, and the way she said it, I doubt it. I think it'd be best not to worry about what has or hasn't been possible in the past. We're here now, and there's nothing we can do about it, so we'll have to make the best of it," Dana said firmly. "Come on, boys, take off your armour and sit down. You've more than earned a break now."

But Fíli shook his head, looking over the injured dwarves in the room, and resting his eyes on the deathly pale elves. "There must be something we can help with."

"Unless you've suddenly become fully qualified healers, then no," said Dana. "We've done all we can here."

Reluctantly, Fíli nodded. He considered simply stripping his armour off right there and then, but there was not a single space on the ground to kick it into.

"I'll be right back, Ama," he promised, sending a small smile around the room before heading through into his own room. His bed was lacking a duvet or any pillows, and several drawers had been pulled open – no doubt in an attempt to find dressings and blankets, and as he stared at them he was pulled back a few hours, to other peoples' homes and rooms, homes torn apart and burnt and ruined by hordes of orcs and Easterlings, and fury and sorrow burned together in his gut.

Exhaustion was beginning to wear him down, now, and the urge to just sink down onto the floor and cry was growing stronger. All he wanted to do was bawl, for the babies and the children and the innocent who had lost their lives, for the soldiers who had been cut down defending their home. For Ehren and Joren and Thora and Bilbo and Dís and Kíli and for himself – he wanted to cry away the horror of what he had seen, the fear of what he had faced –

But he could not break.

Not just yet.

He made his way to the bathroom and lit the lamps inside, and when the light swelled before the mirror to reveal his face, he winced. The slash the orcs had given him was long, and deep, stretching down from above his eyebrow to the tip of his chin, and the torn skin around the edge of the wound was shadowed with bruising and swelling. It ached, and stung, and he could feel the tight tug of dried blood against his flesh every time he moved his jaw. It was no wonder his mother had cried.

He sighed, ignoring the few tears that snuck from his eyes before he could stop them, and twisted open the tap. Water sputtered out, first cool, then warm and then hot, and the heat was a relief beyond measure as it poured over his aching hands, and began to wash the filth of battle away. He needed a bath, really, but he was not sure that he had the strength, so he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows and ran the soap up his arms, scrubbing at the black and red blood that covered them until it had all drained away down the sink. His forearms and hands were bright pink from the heat of the water and the force of the scrubbing, but he did not really care.

He took a flannel and ran it under the water, and then, gingerly, he raised it up to his face. He scrubbed the left side first, moving slowly and tentatively towards the wound on the right, until it could not be put off anymore. Then he began to clean away the edges of the wound, hissing through his teeth as the pain grew sharp and hot and fresh. When he pressed a clean, wet flannel against the open wound itself he almost cried out, but he gritted his teeth and held his tongue, and after a few, torturous minutes, it was over.

Like his arms, his face was flushed and pink, and the wound began to weep again now that the dried blood had been moved away, but he was too tired to figure out a way to bandage the wound properly, so he just pressed a towel against it, and fumbled his way into the bedroom to change his clothes. With one hand, he pulled on a clean tunic and leggings, and then a pair of thick, woollen socks, though he forewent shoes. He wanted to pretend, even if only for a moment, that he was tucked up in pyjamas, that the night had been no more than an awful dream.

He sighed heavily, resting his weapons on the side and kicking his filthy clothes to the corner behind the dresser, and then he threw the bloodied towel atop the pile and returned to his brother's room.

"Ah, that looks better," Dana breathed, and she stood up, crossing the room to pat the tiny space between Bilbo and the end of the bed. "Come now, Fíli, sit down and let me have a look at your face."

Too tired to argue, Fíli obeyed, and the moment he sat between his parents his mother seized his hand, Bilbo put a hand on his leg, and Kíli reached over to grab the back of his elbow, and despite everything Fíli smiled slightly. Dana took his chin in her fingers and glanced at the wound carefully, before looking to Glóin.

"I'm not sure… It's not quite as wide as Bofur's, I'm not sure if stitches would be the best bet…"

Glóin glanced over and nodded slowly. "Aye… put a dressing on it if you can, just until the last of that bleeding stops. But I wouldn't stitch it."

Fíli gave a small sigh of relief, even as Dana retrieved a pot of ointment that he knew full well would sting. He had never much liked having stitches – the sensation of the needle pushing through his skin made his stomach turn. He sat back and let Dana tend to his wounds, and when she was done, he stayed there. He knew he ought to move, to be helping his people, to be doing something, but his mother was clinging to his hand as though it was all that tethered her to the universe, and he could not bear the thought of leaving her.

About half an hour after Fíli sat down, Dwalin arrived at Kíli's door with a small guard detail to escort those who could be moved to the Healing Halls. He had brought two healers with him, Rútr and Iola – dwarves that Óin had trusted beyond almost any other healer he had ever met – and the pair went carefully from each wounded person to the next, assessing who could be moved safely to the support of the Healing Halls.

"I believe most of the wounded can be safely moved," said Iola finally, running a hand over her braided, greying beard. "But Ari and this poor young lass here both have a high risk of having some sort of spinal or neck injury, and I don't think it'd be wise to move them so far as the Healing Halls, not when they might happen upon orcs, and be subjected to sudden or jerking movements. As for the elves, they are both very weak… we could move them, but I would recommend doing so with a fresh guard detail – I would want at least four dwarves per stretcher, to make sure they are supported and safe, but doing so would reduce the number of your guard dangerously, Lord Dwalin."

"I don't mind them staying here longer," said Kíli softly. "As long as they need to."

Dwalin bowed his head. "It's your call, Iola."

She inclined her head back, and then looked to Rútr, who nodded. "Then we will move all but Ari this lass here, and the elves. I will stay here, with them, and Rútr will accompany Lord Dwalin and the others back to the Healing Halls."

At once, Dwalin and his soldiers began to move the rest of the wounded onto stretchers, though Dwalin took the two toddlers from Aria's arms himself, nestling them in the crooks of his elbows as Rútr took the baby into his own arms. Ehren rose with his mother's stretcher, glancing at Fíli with a trembling lip, and Fíli nodded.

"Bragi," he murmured, and when the albino caught his eye, he nodded at Ehren. Bragi nodded back, crossing the room quickly and taking Ehren's elbow, and together they followed the stretcher out of the bedroom.

Finally, when all the rest of the wounded had been moved out of the bedroom, Dwalin paused by the door and smiled wryly at Fíli.

"I have orders from Thorin," he said warmly. "For now, he wants you to stay here, protect the family."

Fíli offered a small smile back and nodded. "I suppose I can do that."

Dwalin nodded, and then strode out of the door, and Fíli smiled a little stronger as he heard the older dwarf barking orders all the way down the corridor.

Iola stepped into action with equal (though far quieter) authority, turning to face the room. "I should like to have a better look at Master Ari's wounds, if that is alright, and for the sake of privacy it may be best to move to another room. Forgive my asking, my prince, but might I use your table?"

Fíli bit back a smile as Kíli fought against rolling his eyes. "Of course," said the younger prince. "Please do. The couch might be more comfortable…"

"Unfortunately, that won't do," said Iola, rolling up her sleeves. "I need him to be higher, that I may see to his wounds properly. Aria, would you mind helping me move some of these blankets to the table, make it a little more comfortable for him?"

A short while later, when Iola was ready, Fíli rose to help Jari and Glóin move Ari carefully into Kíli's dining room, laying him out on the table as gently as they could. Though he winced, and hissed in pain more than once, Ari gave no complaint, even smiling as the others bowed back into Kíli's room.

Over the next few hours, Iola moved between the dining room and the bedroom, tending to each of the wounded with a single-minded care that reminded Fíli so painfully of Óin. She moved here and there with ointments and potions Fíli would never have thought of using, and by the time evening came, Tauriel opened her eyes.

She was weak, and alarmingly so, but when she saw Iola, she gave a small smile. "I remember you," she murmured. "From the Battle… of the Five Armies… You seemed the only dwarf around… with any sense."

Iola gave a wry smile. "Aye, I remember you too, lass. Only last time you were helping us heal our wounded, not the other way around."

Tauriel closed her eyes, nodding slightly. "You… you are not unskilled, my lady. Listen to me, now, and perhaps we may help each other again."

And Iola listened, and by the time the evening wore into night she had created a draught from Tauriel's instruction, one that somehow allowed the healers to feed those who were unconscious. Fíli did not understand it at all, and he was not entirely sure that Iola understood it either, but she brewed batch after batch, and delivered it to the Healing Halls, and to Elbeth and the young, unnamed dwarf in Kíli's room.

Whether it was by Iola's wisdom or Tauriel's guidance, or an answer to some desperate prayer, every dwarf and elf and hobbit that had been sheltered in Kíli's room when Fíli found them survived the wounds that night had dealt them. Many more within the Healing Halls were spared by the potion – but the rest of the mountain was not as lucky.

The days that followed the battle passed slowly, and as they crawled by, the count of the dead rose higher. It took several days to find all of the bodies, and bring the children of Erebor home from their last, fruitless hiding places, and even when the last of the missing had been found, the number of the dead continued to rise with those that even Iola could not save.

And among the dead were many that Fíli knew – many that he cared about, deeply.

Alfr had fallen in the final charge, Alfr, who he had known since birth, who had been close as kin to him for decades, who had saved Glorfindel, and Elrond's sons with Soren in Mirkwood. Alfr, who the hobbits of the Shire would cheerfully call 'Alfie' on his many visits back, Alfr, who had remained in Erebor this year to be with his wife, and their new-born daughter.

Elza, Dwalin's wife, lost three of her five brothers, dwarves that had been heartily welcomed into Fíli's extended family over the past two decades, dwarves he knew, and cared for, and grieved as cousins. Darben had fallen in the first sneak attack on the gates, and Dalen in the charge out from the mountain, but Dustan had fallen inside, one of the many cut down as they tried to usher the more vulnerable to safety.

Ión, the old dwarf who had taught Fíli all he knew about wielding dual blades, had also fallen. At the age of three hundred and two, he had insisted on fighting on the frontline, and an orc arrow had struck him down from the wall. A similar fate had befallen Nora, Thora's sister and Ehren's aunt – a woman who had been like an aunt to Fíli himself through much of his childhood. She held on for three days, but then she too succumbed.

And after four days of fighting wounds that had torn apart his stomach, Bard, King of Dale, breathed his last, joining his eldest daughter in death. Though not a warrior, Sigrid had placed herself between the orcs and her fleeing people, and in doing so she had fallen to the axes of the orcs. Bard's younger children, the new King Bain, and Princess Tilda had taken it hard, but even as they wept, they refused to fall apart, employing the same, quiet dignity their father had worn so well.

In the end, the official death toll counted three thousand and seven hundred dwarves dead – three thousand seven hundred people entombed in freshly carved stone coffins, three thousand seven hundred buried deep within the mountain. So deep, Fíli hoped, that no invader would ever bother them again. In days to come, he knew, the names of the dead would be carved into the walls, and the chamber would become a thing of great beauty, but as it was now it was only a place of death, the final resting place of folk who deserve better. The warriors lay beside the children, the poor by the rich, and the lords by the labourers, for they had each faced the same threat, and each lost everything in the face of it.

As for the two and a half thousand men who had perished, Tilda requested that they be buried beneath the stars on the mountainside. She did not want to risk digging for so long outside of Dale while there was still a chance of orcs in Esgaroth, and no one had the heart or will to deny her. As the men carved their wooden coffins in the manner of their people from whatever wood and old furniture the dwarves had to offer them, Fíli led a hundred odd soldiers in digging the graves. When the time came to lay the men to rest, Thorin offered a great, white stone to the people of Dale, engraved with the names of their dead, and the crest of both Dale and Durin.

When the stone was finally set up before the gravesite, and the last coffin had been covered with the final mound of dirt, the dwarves of Erebor and men of Dale stood a while upon the mountainside in a silence that encompassed them all, man, woman, and child. Not even the whimper of baby broke the quiet, and though every soul was wrapped in their own thoughts, they stood together, no one out of hands reach of another. In that moment, even the most xenophobic of the dwarves and the least trusting of the men felt it – a bond that ran deep as the roots of the mountains, that flew as vast as the sky above.

They were dwarves, and Men, and hobbits, yet they were as one, and they always would be.

And even with his anguish and grief and lingering fear, Fíli had never been so proud in all his life.

 **I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Please do let me know what you thought, I love hearing from you! Until the next chapter, take care!**


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